


A plain, unvarnished tale.....

by fantasticalwalker



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-03-28 06:47:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13898562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantasticalwalker/pseuds/fantasticalwalker
Summary: The beginning of a story with characters known and a few new characters ....stretching back in time.





	1. Preamble

Cardinal Richlieu sat in his high-backed chair, watching the animated face of the envoy standing on the other side of his desk. He had stopped listening to the man a while ago and was struggling not to yawn.

The man was from Rome and he was, with considerable energy, delivering the Pope’s message regarding his Holiness’ unhappiness with France - starting and finishing with its unholy alliance with Muslims. 

The Cardinal shifted in his chair, hoping the priest would stop talking soon. He was only here as a courtesy and a nod to the authority of Rome. The issue the priest wanted to discuss, wasn’t up for discussion. Not he, the King or the King’s ministers would consider abandoning the lucrative and strategic agreement between France and the Ottoman Empire. 

Why was the Pope so irrational? he wondered. The man should study a map. The alliance was good for France, good for the Ottomans, good for doctors and poets who were happy with scientific and cultural exchange, merchants were happy with increasing trade, and Habsburgs and their Protestants were unhappy and prevented from spreading throughout Europe. The Ottomans were holding to their word to protect Christians within their empire and missionaries and Jesuits were flooding the area. What more, in the name of heaven, could the man want? 

The Cardinal stifled another yawn and realized that the priest had stopped talking and was looking at him expectantly. 

‘Thank you,’ the Cardinal said smoothly. ‘Let’s adjourn for the evening and dinner. We can resume our talks in the morning.’ The priest looked startled and then frowned. What? thought the Cardinal – had his lack of attention resulted in him not knowing the time of day? Adjournment for dinner would make no sense if it were still morning. 

The priest gathered up his documents, bowed and left the Cardinal’s office, as did the other ministers, clerks and members of the diplomatic corp. Finally, he was alone. He went to the side table and poured a generous quantity of wine into a goblet. He returned to his desk, lit another candle and took a long drink.

He steepled his fingers, thinking about his current problem. Another day and no message from his spy in Savoy or the ambassadors in Constantinople and Isfahan. The location of the guns was unknown, and the gold was missing. It took too damned long for communications with that part of the world. 

And if that wasn’t enough, the Persian embassy, aided by the damned English, was crisscrossing Europe, attempting to forge a counter-balancing alliance to aid the Persians in their wars against the Ottomans. Spys were everywhere, agents and counteragents, information and disinformation spreading like wildfire.

Persians! the Cardinal grimaced. Tenacious, he could give them that, but a people ought to know when they were conquered. They couldn’t hide behind their mountains forever.

 

The wind was blowing hard outside the tent, it’s leather walls billowing and snapping as the wind whistled and rocked the tent. The camels were lying down, their backs to the wind, moving their heads as it pushed against them, occasionally braying in objection.

Inside, two men sat on carpets and pillows, warming themselves next to a brazier in which a fire burned hotly, warming the tent and the tea brewing on top of it. A silent woman placed a large platter, filled with food between the men. They ate in silence, listening to the wind, and the crackle of the fire. 

The old spymaster leaned back, sipping the fragrant tea and studying his agent sitting across from him. 

‘My friend’ he addressed him. ‘It is good to see you again. And alive!’ Both men chuckled, and the agent nodded fervently.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘praise Allah.’

‘And praise the confused Westerners! It is our fortune that we all look alike to them. They are not certain of who they need to kill!’ quipped the old spymaster, ‘meanwhile we are tripping over ourselves with disinformation plans. Some of it so twisted that it will turn out to be true.’ The men laughed together. 

The spymaster narrowed his eyes, leaning forward, ‘What do you have for me?’ he asked the younger man.

‘We have found her.’ The old spymaster leaned forward, eyes glittering, 

‘Where?’

‘In the north, a small village. When Sukh left he took her with him. She’s been there ever since.’ 

‘Ah, the virtues of the chador used to hide in plain sight’ sighed the spymaster. ‘Sukh. I didn’t think of that. An incomparable man and warrior. He’s trained her, no doubt?’ 

‘We think so.’ ‘How long do we have? 

‘Not long. The priests are close.’ 

‘Jesuits!’ spat the man. ‘How many were sent? Who do they work for?’ 

‘There are only two of them. And they work for God!’ the agent reminded him sarcastically. They smiled in amusement. 

The spymaster shook his finger at his agent, ‘Rome works unknowingly to aid us – you know the Pope does not like his Catholic flock consorting and trading with Muslims.’ 

The agent leaned forward, face serious, ‘I’m told they work for a man close to the King.’ 

‘I need to get a message to the embassy,’ said the spymaster. 

He stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘if Rome is unsuccessful and Savoy’s plan to disrupt the French King’s alliance with the Sultan fails, perhaps we have another opportunity here.’ 

‘Is it certain that she has the information?’ asked the agent. 

‘No, we do not know that for sure,’ acknowledged the spymaster. ‘But the French King wants her returned. We can use that.’

He leaned forward, gripping the younger man’s arm, ‘I don’t need to tell you the seriousness of the situation in the south. Without western support we may lose again.’ 

The agent nodded, understanding his task and the consequences for his country if he failed. 

The old spymaster leaned back again, sighing deeply, rubbing his face. It had been a long journey to get to this location. He needed to get back to the capital and that meant leaving in the early dawn hours. The work never stopped, nor would it. Ottomans and their merciless and relentless quest for conquest had occupied his entire life and indeed the life of his master before him and on back through years and decades and centuries. He could not remember a time when his people were not at war. The unwillingness of his country to submit to the Ottoman juggernaut had, over time, weakened the rule of the Sultans, but they were far from vanquished. 

He shook himself from his reverie. The younger man was talking to him. ‘Did you know her father?’ asked the agent. 

The old spymaster nodded his head, looking into the gold and red flames of the brazier. ‘Yes, I knew him. A good man,’ he was thoughtful. He wasn’t prepared to tell the younger man what he knew about the French diplomat. He knew there was a child – a daughter. He believed he might have seen her. But he had never asked himself what became of her. He had supposed she had been sent back to France. Apparently, she had been forgotten.

‘The French King has traitors close to him,’ mused the older man, rubbing his face thoughtfully. The spymaster eyed the man across from him, thinking through the next steps. ‘You must get there before the priest. What is the name of the man he works for?’ 

 

‘Treville’  
The Captain of the Musketeers, Treville stood on the balcony outside his office watching Athos and Aramis spar with the new cadets. The wind was kicking up the dirt in the yard, causing the dust to rise. The cadets were coughing and wiping their eyes, the older men unsympathetic and reminding them that battles were not fought under ideal weather conditions. The older men were taking them on two at a time and still setting them back on their heels. Treville sighed. His ranks needed more men, better men, to deal with the unrest in the streets of Paris and outside. Too many good men were diverted into the army.

A boy ran into the yard, calling ‘Monsieur Treville! A message for Monsieur Treville.’

‘Here boy,’ called Treville and started down the steps. The boy ran up to meet him, thrusting a folded paper, sealed, and turned to leave.

‘Wait!’ called the captain, and handed the boy a coin, waving him away with his hand. He continued to watch the sparring exercise, opening the folded paper at the same time. He looked down at the letter, read the first line, and sucked in his breath.

I have found her.

Sounds became muted and his vision blurred for a second. He grasped the banister to balance himself. He was uncertain that he had read the words correctly. He stepped to the table, sitting down and taking a deep breath, lifting the letter again.

My dearest Arnaud –  
I have found her.  
I have little time to write this message to you and for security reasons I cannot go into details. I entrust this to someone who will get it to you.  
Your friend,  
de Fontaney

Treville sat alone in his office, a single candle burned on his desk, creating a small ring of light, the rest of the room in darkness. The priest was sitting across from him, weary, clothes dusty and worn from long travel. But he had been charged with coming here as quickly as possible. Treville poured both water and wine for him and sat back, trying to be patient and wait for the tired man to speak. 

‘I have come directly from Marseille,’ he said to Treville. ‘de Fontaney and Father Romano were on their way to the village before I left. I do not know all the details of the travel plans and they may change as necessary. Some secrecy is required, you understand. The Persians are looking for her. But I am told you already know this.’ 

‘Yes,’ Treville nodded. The Persian ambassador had paid him a visit. For the price of Treville committing treason, the Persians would guarantee her safety. So, the man had lied to him. They did not have her. 

‘Sailing from Constantinople to Marseille may not be safest – the Persians would certainly look there for her. Fortaney may have to consider another route. You must be prepared to intercept her, if that becomes necessary.’ Treville nodded, wanting to ask more questions, but knowing the priest did not have the answers. He thanked the man and let him go.

There was nothing he could do now but wait. He lifted his feet to rest on the desk, leaning back and laid his head on the back of the chair. He was feeling old, tired and more afraid than he could remember. He had never been this close before.

 

Lucien Grimaud stared out the window. The wind was rising, rattling the windows and whipping the skirts of women walking along the street below and threatening to snatch the hats of men. He turned back to the desk and picked up the document, reading it again. The message was not intended for him. It’s intended recipient was Cardinal Richelieu, from his spy in Savoy. Grimaud’s man in Savoy had intercepted it and sent it to his master. 

Interesting he thought as he scanned it again, the Duc of Savoy was a traitor to the King of France. The Duc and enemies of France were building arsenals and, in the market, secretly, for Ottoman guns – musket and canon. He was not interested in the political intrigues that occupied the lives of ducs, emperors, sultans, kings and Rome. He would trade with any side if the terms were right. 

He thought of what to do with this information. Perhaps he would do nothing. War was profitable, regardless of who was fighting or for what reason. The cardinal’s green-eyed assassin may be interested in it. He smiled at the thought. He wouldn’t mind another negotiation with her.

There was one that he was certain would be interested – particularly since it seems he was about to commit treason. But why would he help a Musketeer? He turned the paper over in his hands, considering his options.

 

She was motionless in the stream, pants rolled up, the spear held high in one hand, the other held out for balance. The wind whipped her hair around her face and she could hear sounds of the rushing water, birds, and the rustle of the wind through the low shrubs lining the stream. The sun was hot overhead, the plain stretching in all directions around her.

She was standing in an eddy, out of the main current of the stream, the water clear, tracking the movements of one large fish, the pattern it was taking in and around her motionless legs and the rocks. She waited patiently, tensing her throwing arm. With speed and accuracy, she thrust the spear, pinning the fish to the floor of the stream. She pulled spear and fish from the water, removed it from the spear point and threw it to the bank with the others.

She looked up as her brother walked along the bank towards her. He was carrying his catch and they tied both strings of fish to the saddle. The boy mounted and pulled her up behind him. They rode quickly to the village. 

Three horses were tethered outside their home. She pulled the scarf up over her hair and wrapped it around the lower half of her face. Her brother walked ahead of her, but she hesitated at the entryway, listening to the voices inside. 

There were two men in dark cloaks sitting opposite Sukh, a third man next to him. This man was addressing the two men in a foreign language. She listened intently, puzzled. The language sounded familiar although she did not know what the words meant. Sukh’s eyes moved in her direction at her entry, and the two men turned to her. She lowered her eyes and walked quickly to the back of the house, handing the fish to Yashmeen, who widened her eyes in amazement at the bounty and smiled at her. 

‘You are a better hunter than your little brother! We shall feast tonight.’ Her brother glared at her and she laughed ruffling his hair. Samira was running across the room carrying a book and she gathered the small child into her arms and onto her lap. She bent her head to the girl as she opened the book and began to read. 

Later, in her room, she stared at her reflection in the small mirror. The face she was looking at was frowning, puzzled and wondering about the men in the other room and the language they were speaking. 

They were priests. Why were they here to see Sukh? She felt troubled and anxious. Sukh been worried. She knew every flicker of his dark impenetrable eyes, the meaning of every tiny movement in the lines and shadows on his inscrutable stony face. He had been worried. 

Priests were from the west. She had come from the west, a fact she often forgot. She lay down on her pallet, next to the sleeping child, and wrapped her arm around her, pulling the little girl closer to her, resting her cheek against her soft hair. The wind howled, and the temperature was dropping. Soon it would be winter.


	2. Preamble

The woman sitting before him was small and old. A few minutes earlier, she had rapped sharply on the door, announced her name, and was now perched in the chair across from him. Her nun’s habit was dusty from the road, her face lined and crevassed like an old apple, feet barely touching the floor. Her eyes were a beautiful cornflower blue, hooded with sagging lids, but clear, sharp, and boring into his own. He thought she probably could see the last time he had gone to confession. 

They were sitting in Treville’s office, but Treville was not there. In the past month, he had not spent much time in his office and had detailed some of his duties to Athos. It was an assignment the Musketeer did not relish. Too much paperwork - Musketeers, cadets, stable hands, staff in the mess and lodgings – a never-ending parade of people through the office, palace demands and endless decisions and details that accompany managing a regiment of soldiers. He handled the job with diligence and attention to details, but it couldn't be soon enough for Treville to return to his office.

Athos poured water from a pitcher into a glass and placed it on the desk before her and sat back in the chair facing hers. The old woman drained the water and he refilled it. She drank deeply and raised the glass in salute. ‘Thank you.’

He waited until she had settled back in the chair, her feet swinging free, and then asked, ‘how can I help you?’ 

Her eyes were sharp, and kind. ‘You are the Musketeer known as Athos?’ He nodded. ‘I knew your father,’ she said. He could not conceal his surprise, shifting unconsciously in his chair and avoiding her eyes for a moment. The memories of his past life were sealed away behind impenetrable barriers. Those barriers wobbled slightly. Nuns had always made him uncomfortable.

‘Your father made gifts to the abbey. And, he liked to nap in our orchard,’ she winked at him. ‘He had a taste for my apricot brandy.’ He found himself leaning forward in his chair, listening to her intently. ‘You came with him a few times’, her eyes twinkling at him. ‘You were quite a serious boy.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘I don’t remember,’ he told her coolly. Silence fell between them. 

She was not discomfited by his coldness. Her blue eyes were gentle on his stern face. She saw the young boy, bolt upright in the saddle, unsmiling and too constrained to even accept lemonade until his father nodded his assent. She smiled and said softly,’ it was a long time ago.’

‘May I ask why you are here?’ he changed the subject firmly. He did not want to explore her knowledge of his father or his family, including his wife.

‘I have come about Sophia’. He could not suppress his frown. How could she be acquainted with Sophia? ‘You know her?’ he did not try to hide his surprise. 

‘I was present when she was born. I was present when her mother, Louisa, was born’, she smiled at him, blue eyes twinkling again. ‘I’m rather old you know.’ He inadvertently smiled back at her not certain he wanted to like her. He did want to know more. ‘So, you knew the family.’

‘Yes. Louisa’s family used the abbey as a family chapel.’ The old nun was thoughtful as she tugged at old memories, dragging them forward through years. ‘Louisa was a beautiful girl, spirited, spoiled, and willful. She loved parties and being the center of attention. There were rival suitors and she flirted with them all. But she was in love with one man - a distant cousin. Her father would not approve the match and arranged a marriage with a diplomat in the King’s service, to a man much older than herself. He was a good man, and she might have been happy, but she didn’t love him. And young girls who are in love are reckless and foolish. I suppose young men are the same,’ the sister smiled at him, but he dropped his eyes. He did not care to discuss reckless and foolish love with a nun. 

Sister Agatha examined her hands folded in her lap. ‘I’m afraid she made his life quite unhappy. Beautiful women can be ruthless in getting what they want out of life. Men who love them can be broken in ways unimaginable.’ She glanced at him as she spoke. He looked away again. He couldn’t seem to maintain eye contact with those persistent blue eyes. He wondered which of them was the tougher soldier.

The sister continued, ‘her daughter was often at the abbey. She grew up a little wild; her mother encouraged that in her daughter.’ The old nun was staring out the window, seeing the little girl, hair flying around her face, dress dirty from outdoor play, running always running. She turned again to Athos sighing, ‘her father lavished most of his attention on her brother and Sophia was left to her own devices. She was clearly intelligent, but that was not considered of much value in a girl. Or in a woman’ said the old woman.’ Not much has changed - has it.’ It wasn’t a question and Athos did not reply.

‘She made friends with a local village boy and they played together in the wood. I think he looked out for her a little. Her family would not have approved, but she was a lonely child growing up in an unhappy home. I saw no harm in it. During a hunting trip, her brother fell from his horse and struck his head. He died a few days later. He was to go with his father on a diplomatic mission in the east. The father took Sophia instead. It broke Louisa’s heart and she died a few years later without ever seeing her daughter again.’

Sister Agatha turned in the chair to face Athos, her eyes earnest. ‘There are reports that her father traveled extensively and left her in the care of her guard and the servants. Then he disappeared completely and presumably died on a trip. Communications were so irregular and there was no news of the girl. It was thought she must have died too. Of course, it was also convenient for the only heir to the d'la Croix family name and estates to be dead. It would go into conservatorship and to the Crown.’ She shook her head in disgust.

‘But by some miracle, she has been found alive and is now in Paris,’ her voice rising in wonder at the change of fortunes for the girl. ‘I want to help her if I can, to fulfill promises I made to her mother.’ 

‘Please,’ she reached out to lay her tiny wrinkled hand over his, ‘I know that Treville sent you to find her. Tell me how she came to be here and what you have learned of her.’

Athos leaned back in the chair and studied the old woman’s face. Where does Sophia’s story begin he wondered. Different people would start it in different places. His story of her began when he entered a grimy room in a small pub in a tiny village. It had taken him awhile to find her. And then she was holding a sword on him and a knife to herself. Everyone in the room was motionless and he had little time to try and figure out what to do. 

It had been a hastily arranged journey. Treville had sent them to meet her and the escort. They were traveling by carriage and moving as fast as possible. There was some urgency but Treville did not explain it to them, except to say they may encounter trouble. 'Go,' he said, 'they must be on the main road coming from the border. Go until you find them,' he ordered. Athos was at the door when he heard Treville say to him, his voice strained – 'Athos - bring her back.' He had turned his head and nodded at Treville – his face grave with unasked questions.

The four men started out as quickly as they could assemble their gear, weapons, and horses. They talked little, moving as fast as they dared. They stopped at villages, inns or taverns to inquire about a traveling party – but no one had seen anything. Just inside the border they came to a small village, where a blacksmith told them a young woman had stumbled into their village a day earlier. She was bleeding from several wounds, and with torn clothing. There were brigands attacking travelers throughout the area. He thought she might have fallen victim to these men. She wouldn’t let him, or his daughter check her wounds. They had given her water and offered some food which she didn’t eat. He wasn’t sure she could understand their language.

Where is she? Athos demanded. The blacksmith pointed towards a small two-story inn at the corner of the square. The men walked quickly to the railing in front of the inn, tethered their horses and went through the door spreading out into the room as they entered. 

There was a small poorly tended fire sputtering in the fireplace on the opposite wall, a few scattered chairs and tables. The ceiling was low and a board resting on two barrels formed the serving bar. There was a stairway at one end of the room leading to a second floor. A woman came out of the kitchen and smiled at them wiping her hands on her already grimy apron. Her thin hair was pinned up on her head and her smile was mostly toothless. Still, her look was kind and Athos felt hopeful that she had helped the girl. 

'We are the King’s Musketeers,' he started to explain, 'we are looking for a young woman.' The woman pointed immediately to the stairway – 'up there, second door on the right.' 

The stairs creaked and groaned under their weight. The hallway was small, and the rooms closely clustered together. The air was stale and thick with the smells of urine, sweat and all the unwashed bodies of those who had slept there. At the second door Athos hesitated, not knowing if he should knock, and then decided to push open the door slowly, calling out – 'my lady.' He entered the room followed by the three men. At the sound of the door opening the woman sitting on the makeshift bed jumped up, grabbed the sword next to her and stumbled to the back wall. She looked at the four men in front of her and raised the sword.

'Stop,' said Athos turning his head to the others. He turned back to her, careful to keep his hands away from his musket and sword. He raised his hands and tried to take in what he was seeing. She was barefoot, trembling, blood sprayed, her clothing torn, arms bare. She had cuts, bruises and dried blood on her arms and bare legs. It was hard to tell her age; her face was partly hidden behind her hair, which was tangled and hanging around her face and shoulders. He couldn’t see her eyes clearly, but he could see that at that moment those eyes were staring at him - dark with anger, determination - and fear. She had backed against the wall but still stood defiantly in front of him, fist of one hand clenched, the other gripping the sword. She was of medium height and slight. The muscles of her arms were tensed, and he remembered thinking that for a slip of a girl she looked remarkably strong. And that she knew how to use the sword. 

Athos took a step toward her, hands still raised and started to speak to her – ‘we are…’

She reached into a pocket in her torn and bloodied skirt and pulled out a dagger. Abruptly, she flipped the knife, reversing it in her hand and gripping the hilt. The blade was now pointing towards her body. He was puzzled, and then understanding filled his eyes and he was shaking his head, saying -no! no! - hands raised in appeal. 

Was she capable of doing it? He took his eyes from the knife to her face and saw tears in her eyes and grim resolve. He turned to the men behind him. Don’t move he growled tensely. Back up – slowly. Still holding up one hand he pulled his sword from the scabbard and placed it on the ground, hilt toward her. He unhooked his musket and lay it down next to the sword. He pushed both toward her. 

'Athos,' Porthos voice was quiet and calm. ' We are too far away to stop her.' So am I thought Athos helplessly. He watched her, but not knowing what else to do or if he should say anything more. Did she understand him? 

She swallowed hard. The four men in front of her were soldiers. She knew that the moment they entered the room. She would not allow them to abuse her. She would die first. She was not afraid to die, but not like this. In a dirty room, far away from anyone she knew and loved or who loved her. No one would know of her death. No one would mourn for her. The tall man in front of her had slid his sword and musket towards her, talking to her in anxious tones. He held his hand out to her. Sukh whispered to her, little star – what do soldiers do? Soldiers follow orders she thought. Did they have orders about her?

No one moved. She was unable to control the trembling of her arms and legs. She was as near complete exhaustion as she had ever been and couldn’t stop the tears flowing from her eyes and running down her face. It was hard to catch her breath and she was breathing rapidly. She looked at each of the men, and finally at the tall man, her eyes traveling over his dark, severe face. She couldn’t go back to where she had come from and she didn’t know how to go forward to where she was intended to go. She needed help but didn’t know whom to trust. He was waiting patiently, his eyes stern, but anxious. He wanted her to trust him. 

Time ticked over and, in the end, fatigue, bleeding injuries, and dread overwhelmed her. The sword dipped in her hand and the dagger slipped from her fingers. Her knees buckled. Athos quickly took a large step, sliding under her before she struck the floor. Her head fell instead against his shoulder, eyes closing. Instantly, Aramis was next to him covering her with his cloak. The two men looked at each other, Aramis blowing out his cheeks in relief. Porthos positioned his arms under her shoulders and legs lifting her and looked expectantly at Athos. 'Where do we go?' Athos stood, hands on hips and breathing hard. He looked at the unconscious figure in Porthos’ arms. 'Let’s get her out of here,' he said. 

The old nun wiped the tears that were flowing down her wrinkled cheeks. ‘Poor child’ she whispered. ‘How fortunate you were there’, looking at Athos through wet eyes. He gave a small smile and lowered his eyes, remembering the next few days.


	3. Introductions

The blacksmith let them use a room in his house. His daughter washed away the dirt and blood and helped Aramis clean and bandage her injuries. Her face was swollen, and her neck had dark bruises from the hands of the man who had beaten and choked her. The attack had been brutal. She had run for her life, barefoot, through heavy brush and low hanging branches. Her feet had cuts, bruises and scrapes and scratches crisscrossed her arms, forehead, and cheeks. She slept for almost two days, waking only briefly when roused to drink the warm broth that was held to her lips. Over the rim of the bowl, she looked at Athos with large strangely iridescent blue eyes trying to bring him into focus. While she slept, he studied her face, wondering at the connection to Treville and why he felt some familiarity with those extraordinary blue eyes. 

She was young, more girl than woman he reckoned. Her face would not attract the eyes of those beguiled by current vogues of beauty – rounded cheeks, rosebud mouth and coquettish hooded eyes from which to wink at men. Her face, at odds with her youth, drew attention by the strength of its features, planes and contours created by high cheekbones and a strong jawline. Her mouth might be considered well shaped but too sensual for a girl or a young woman, her lips full. She had a thin faint scar that started at her left collarbone, running across the top of her shoulder and down the top of her arm. It was an old knife wound and he wondered at how she came to be marked by it. On her right shoulder was the beginning of a tattoo, a series of symbols burnt umber in color, running down the left side of her back.  
Athos gave the blacksmith’s daughter some coins and she found clean clothes for the girl among the households in the village. A pair of boy’s trousers, a skirt too long, a blouse and a blanket. Aramis cut a hole in the blanket to put her head through. She pulled on the trousers under the skirt. She shortened the skirt by cutting off the bottom, using it as a scarf to cover her hair and wind it around her neck. Whenever they encountered people on the road, she pulled it up to cover her face, only her blue eyes showing. She often retreated completely under the blanket-cloak. 

She wanted to return to the site of the attack, to bury those who had been killed by the brigands and retrieve hidden items. In the early morning, the men, mounted on their horses, breath steaming in the cold air, waited for her in the yard. Athos extended his arm to swing her up behind him, turning his head towards her – hold on, he said. She looked past him to the road beyond, apprehensive as to what they would find. Glancing back into his dark eyes, she nodded, setting her mouth in a grim line, and putting her arms around him, pulled herself closer to him. 

The carriage had been plundered by the brigands who had attacked them and scavenged by others. It was now on the side of the road, upside down, wheels gone, windows broken, door ripped off, upholstery ripped and strewn about the ground, shafts split and sticking up like broken ribs. The bodies had been dragged off the road and hastily covered with dirt and debris from the forest floor.  
She stood staring at the carnage, arms folded over her chest and hugging herself tightly. Tell us what happened the tall man asked her softly. He spread his cloak on a tree stump, took her by the arms and gently sat her down. She looked up at him for a long moment and then back at the broken carriage and the bodies beyond. Her native language was no longer the language of her birth, but she drew herself together to tell the story haltingly. 

The travelers were late on the road. The sun was setting, and soon, it would be dark. There had been four of them and they had run the carriage down, shooting and killing the driver and guard. Three of the attackers had dragged her, and the woman she was traveling with, from the carriage while the other started to plunder the carriage. There was the sound of ripping fabric as a knife was taken to the coverings and seats. The woman was screaming as two men dragged her around to the other side of the carriage and disappeared from her sight. Her screaming soon became muffled cries, sobs and groans and then stopped altogether. 

She was wrestled to the ground by one man who, grunting and breathing heavily, knelt on her chest, dropping his sword to undo his pants while tearing at her dress with the other hand. The pain was unbearable, and she struggled to breath, gasping and pushing against him, vainly scratching at his neck, face, and eyes. He leaned his bearded dirty face toward her, leering mouth baring his broken and brown teeth, discharging his foul breath inches from her face. She tried to turn her face to avoid the mouth that was bearing down on her.

Something was digging painfully into her side. She shoved her hand downward and touched metal. Gritting her teeth and gasping for air, she gripped the metal hilt of the dagger and yanked it from his belt, swinging her arm as far away from her body as she could, driving the blade back towards him hard, screaming into his ear and plunging the knife into his neck. 

He howled in surprise and agony, clutching at his neck and impaled dagger, but he was already dying. Frantic, she twisted her body to avoid him falling completely on top of her, pushing desperately against him, struggling to pull herself from under him. Breathless with the effort, she rolled to her knees and pushed herself to her feet, took a few staggering steps, holding her torn dress together with one hand and grabbed his sword with the other. Her legs were shaking, and she wasn’t sure they would hold her upright, but she took a few unsteady steps toward the forest. 

She could hear shouts behind her, but she didn’t look back, forcing herself to move faster. She began to run, bent over from the ache in her chest, unable to take a deep breath. She tripped and fell heavily, stifling a grunt of pain, tumbling down an embankment. They were close behind her. She crawled hurriedly towards low bushes and rolled herself underneath pulling the sword after her. The men were searching the wood above, swinging and stabbing their swords through the undergrowth, calling to her, threatening, and then cajoling, promising not to harm her. Eventually they gave up and returned to their plunder of the carriage and the dead.

She heard the horses move away, but she stayed hidden, lying on her back hugging the sword to her chest. She fell asleep and woke to the dark of the cold night. She listened intently to the sounds around her. She could only hear the hums of insects and wind in the trees. No sound of horses or men hiding in wait for her to reveal herself. Still she waited. Before dawn, she pulled herself from the underbrush and returned to the carriage. A muddied cloak was on the ground and she used it to cover the dead naked woman. The body of the man she had killed was there too. She didn’t look at his face, but she found the dagger under his body. 

She knew the secret place where money and other valuables were hidden. The thieves had not found it. She buried it in the forest before she started walking in the direction they had been traveling. She found a small stream, staying close to it until it veered from the direction of the road. She walked a path parallel to the road, fleeing into the forest to hide at the sound of horses. She got to the village three days later, watching from a distance to see if her attackers were there too. Thirst finally drove her to take the risk and she entered the village.

She stopped and looked at the faces of the four men. They had listened to her without interruption. The biggest of the four was scowling, shifting restlessly as he stood, arms crossed over his huge chest, and muttering to himself. Two of the men looked sorrowfully at her, shaking their heads, and rubbing at their stubbled faces. 

Their leader sat motionless. His dark, inscrutable eyes had not left her face. She met his gaze and did not look away. He nodded at her. You did well he said quietly. She looked down quickly, biting her lip hard and breathing deeply. It took every ounce of her strength not to burst into tears. So, she did not see the empathy and sadness, that flashed in his dark eyes. 

The men dug graves and buried the bodies. She placed a few wildflowers on the grave of the woman. The woman had been hired to accompany her. She hadn’t known her and was sorry that she had been so brutally assaulted and killed. No doubt, going to Paris had seemed a grand adventure at the time. 

They returned to the village. They needed a horse for her, and other provisions. The blacksmith had a few horses for sale and Athos and D’Artangan went to look, the girl trailing after them.  
While D’Artangan talked to the blacksmith, she entered the enclosure studying the small herd, approaching them, one at a time, speaking softly in a language he couldn’t understand. She ran her hands over their withers, legs, picking up feet and examining teeth. They pushed their noses into her chest, nuzzling her while she rubbed their necks and behind their ears. Athos watched her. She knows something about horses he thought. 

She settled on a mare, dun colored and with a white mane and tail. She watched D’Artangan negotiate the price for horse, saddle, and bridle and held out a leather pouch to him. He paid the blacksmith and she watched as he saddled the horse. D’Artangan started to lower his hands to help her into the saddle but she had already turned, grasped the reins and pommel, and vaulted into the saddle. Athos almost laughed at the look of astonishment on D’Artangan’s face. It was unusual to see a woman ride astride, much less to vault onto the back of a horse. He was surprised too, but he began to think that this girl might be full of surprises.

The nun coughed and Athos looked at the old woman, realizing, uneasily, that she was studying him, her eyes astute. He had been silent too long. He cleared his throat and said, ‘she improved over the next few days and we were able to bring her back to Paris.’ 

After a moment, she nodded and dropped her eyes from his. But he had no doubt she knew there was more to the story and that he had chosen not to tell her. 

They were both silent. Sister Agatha turned to him and smiled brightly, ‘thank you for telling me. I am grateful she is safe now.’ He didn’t know about that - safe and Sophia did not seem to go together. But he understood what the nun meant, and he didn’t want to unsettle her sense of relief; or to make any further explanations

‘May I ask a favor?’ the sister had gotten to her feet and was straightening her skirt. Athos stood and looked askance at her. 

‘Would you bring her to me? I am staying with the sisters at the cathedral. I would so like to see her.’ 

‘Yes’, he agreed readily. ‘That is, provided she wants to do so. She has her own mind about most things’ he advised her. 

‘I wouldn’t expect otherwise’ the nun’s eyes twinkled. ‘She is, after all, her mother’s daughter.’ He walked out with her, calling to the groom to bring the cart to take her to the cathedral. He helped her up onto the seat and watched as they drove out of the garrison yard.

He went to his rooms and sat back in a chair, pressing the fingers of both hands together and tapping his chin. He poured wine into a glass next to him and leaned back, resting his head against the high back of the chair letting his thoughts roam free in the past. 

It was the unusual iridescence of her blue eyes that first stirred his memory. Their enigmatic luminosity sparkled from the myriad shades of blue swirled together into their blue color. It was a recollection from many years ago, and it took several days for it to surface. It was a chance meeting, long ago, when he still had the opportunity to be the son of which his father was so proud, to do his duty to his family and his name. 

He wondered if he might have been contented - fulfilling his role dutifully as his father had so carefully planned for him. In the chaos of the years that followed his brother’s death, he had never thought of her or what might have been if she had not disappeared. He had forgotten her completely. 

A knock at the door and Aramis pushed the door open. ‘Sorry,’ he started apologetically. ‘The palace requests our presence.’

Athos nodded and drained his glass. He wanted another drink. He stood up, picking up sword, musket and settled his hat on his head. He hesitated briefly, pulling on his gloves and then followed Aramis out into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

He knew her name but had not thought about it during the fast ride they had taken to intercept her, or when he found her, bloody and beaten, in a stinking room in a grimy inn, or when Aramis was tending to her injuries. He didn’t think it as he sat in a chair and kept watch as she slept in a narrow bed in a small room. But, when the blacksmith’s daughter held a bowl of broth for her, and she opened her eyes and looked at him over the rim of that bowl, he thought about her name. And, realized, that he knew her. 

He had encountered her in the library of her family home. She was about six years old and running from the room to escape punishment for thrashing her older brother with a riding crop. He was there waiting for his father, who was in the study, discussing a marriage contract with her father. She had stared up at him, large strangely iridescent blue eyes flashing at him, masses of disheveled blonde curls flying about her face, and then she was gone through the open balcony door.

Her name was Anastasia Elisabeth Louise Sophia D’laCroix. She was a daughter of the aristocracy, from a family that extended back through generations to ancient times. She was related to most of the noble houses within the borders of France, including that family which currently occupied the throne. She was the beneficiary of holdings in France and beyond and held several titles in her own right. 

This most titled young lady was currently sitting on a small mare, traveling with four well-armed soldiers of the French court, wearing boys pants, a shabby and torn dress and covered by a blanket modified to be worn more like that befitting a beggar than a noble woman. She seemed not to care.

In addition, French was no longer her native language, and she stumbled while trying to communicate, but she had not forgotten it completely. Aramis assumed the role of tutor, naming every object in sight – horse, saddle, road, leaf, sky, food, bird, rocks, trees, water, fish - repeating every word three times resulting in Porthos threatening to hit him if he didn’t shut up. She dutifully repeated the words and conjugated verbs, but soon she was casting sideways glances of irritation and impatience at her teacher. It was strange to hear her speak with a foreign accent. 

Porthos taught her to play cards. They collected small stones for gambling and she caught on quickly. She liked playing cards and winning stones much more than French lessons. She was soon cheating better than Porthos – an outcome to his instruction that he had not anticipated. As her pile of stones grew higher than his, he declared, ‘when we get back to Paris, I’m going to make a fortune with her!’  
Athos decided against telling his brother that she probably already had a fortune.

They had left the small village and were traveling slowly. Athos wanted to get her back to Paris as quickly as possible. She had suffered a terrible assault and needed more assistance than they could provide for her. But Aramis worried about the hardship of travel on her, ‘she’s weak Athos. We should wait another day or two.’

‘She needs a doctor and the assistance that women can provide to her,’ countered Athos. ‘As soon as she can ride, we need to get on the road and her to Paris.’

‘Her injuries are not too serious. She’s young and will heal.’ Aramis shook his head. ‘But she is exhausted, and possibly suffering from the after effects of the attack.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘She doesn’t sleep well.’ 

Athos blew out his cheeks. He did not want to delay. ‘We’ll take it slow, not push her too hard. At the first sign of difficulty, we will stop.’ Aramis agreed reluctantly. He did not think she was ready for a long journey. He went to tell her to prepare to leave in the morning.

The first few days were uneventful. They slow pace of their travel meant that they could not always travel far enough to stop at an inn. The weather was pleasant enough, but after several nights making camp, Athos deferred to Aramis’ judgment. She seemed better, but she remained pale, her face still slightly swollen and bruised. She ate little, and at night, she had started to roll into her blankets and turn away from them. He could tell she cried herself to sleep by the silent subtle trembling of her shoulders. She now ignored Aramis’ French lessons. She didn’t want to play cards with Porthos. She did not complain. Indeed, she was mostly silent, and withdrew under her blanket cocoon. He was troubled by her silence. He felt something unidentified and bad, looming and threatening. 

They were the only travelers occupying the rooms in the small inn. The innkeeper’s wife had arranged hot water for a bath and soon afterwards she had gone to bed. Porthos was taking the watch outside her door and the others were in the tavern. It was just the three of them in the room. The fire was warm and the food the innkeeper had brought was surprisingly good. They rested their feet on the fire grate, leaning back in their chairs, drinking wine and savoring the moment of quiet and companionship. Athos rubbed his face and held his hands toward the fire, momentarily relieved of his near constant vigilance. He opened his jacket and loosened his scarf. He took a deep drink of the wine.

‘What do you think? ‘Aramis addressed Athos, lifting his own tankard to drink deeply. 

‘I think you are a terrible French teacher. Be glad she is not in possession of that sword’ replied Athos, putting his tankard down. He removed his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. His eyes were gritty, and his back sore. He wanted to take his boots off. 

‘Hmmph’ snorted Aramis. D’Artagnan smiled slightly but quickly frowned. ‘Who is she?’ he asked. ‘I know the family name but not her.’ He addressed Athos, who shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. He didn’t want to talk about how he knew her.

‘She’s seems educated well beyond what one would expect’ Aramis remarked. ‘She’ - he searched for the correct word – ‘has capabilities. Surviving the attack was a miracle’, he finished and frowned. He drained his drink, ‘She is’ - he paused to find the right word.

‘Intelligent,’ supplied Athos, staring thoughtfully into the fire. ‘She is resourceful. It is a wonder that she is alive.’ He took a long drink and continued, ‘taken east as a child, orphaned, or abandoned by her father, unknown who cared for and protected her, found again and returned to the country of her birth. Do we think she is here willingly?’ 

‘You assume she was protected’ Aramis countered. ‘We don’t know how she might have been treated. She was lucky to have been found. And why would she not want to come home?’

‘Is it home?’ Athos raised his eyebrows to Aramis. ‘But I am sure someone cared for her. ‘She has…..’

Screams, ear-splitting and terrified, pierced the quiet of the tavern, bringing all three men instantly to their feet, hands on their swords. It took Athos a moment to realize that it was not coming from outside the tavern but from the rooms upstairs. The innkeeper ran from the kitchen. ‘We’ll handle this,’ Athos shouted to him as they raced up the stairs. Porthos was already in the room standing just inside the door. She had fallen out of bed and was desperately trying to press herself into the corner of the room. Her feet were scrabbling at the floors, her hands frantically pushing away at something she was seeing. She was crying uncontrollably, terrified, her hair wild around her face and shoulders, eyes milky and unfocused, gasping for breath. She’s not awake, thought Athos. She’s having a nightmare. And - she cannot breathe.

Porthos sprang forward and knelt in front of her, grabbing her arms, pulling her away from the corner. She screamed, fighting him, struggling to free herself from his hold, wheezing and gasping for air. He wrapped his huge arm around her and leaned back against the wall dragging her on top of him, her back against his chest. She arched away from him, trying to dig in her feet and push against the floor. ‘Hold her still,’ his voice quiet but urgent. 

The three men moved quickly to him, placing their hands on her legs, and arms gently to keep her still without pinning her forcibly. She was gasping and choking, hands clenched, and trying to twist her body away from their hold. Porthos placed his large hand high on her chest, pressing her to him and murmured into her ear ‘-breathe with me’ - taking a deep breath, his big chest rising, lifting her, and then letting it out. ‘Breathe with me,’ he repeated,his deep voice rumbling in his chest, taking another deep breath and slowly releasing it, keeping his hand secure against her chest. 

She pulled against their restraints, trying to twist away from them, gasping, and shuddering. She suddenly slowed her resistance, as though hearing his voice for the first time. She shivered, head rolling, and then attempted a thin rasping breath in and out quickly. She tried another wheezing effort and then she was breathing, shallowly, but in rhythm with Porthos, her clenched fists uncurling slowly. Porthos did not stop until her head dropped back against his shoulder, her breathing, not yet deep, but regular. She was asleep. 

Porthos leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.  
Aramis had let go of her arms and sat back on his haunches, rubbing the back of his neck and looking at his brother. ‘How did you know to do that?’

‘I saw my mother do it to a child once,’ replied Porthos, eyes still closed and holding her carefully. ‘It worked.’ Athos pulled a blanket from the bed and covered her. She was cold to his touch and still trembling slightly. 

D’Artagnan was looking at her shaking his head. ‘Poor girl – the attack on the road was brutal. ‘

The men looked at each other, and then at the tear ravaged face of the girl Porthos was holding. She was uneasy in her sleep, her shoulders twitching, and her head moving restlessly. The nightmare had receded, but the dreaming continued. Athos knelt to lift her from Porthos and carry her to the bed. She rolled immediately onto her side, knees drawn up and arms folded inward. He covered her with the blankets. 

‘I’ll take the next watch,’ he said dropping into the chair next to the bed. 

The three men left the room. Aramis returned with a flask of wine and two glasses. He sat down and poured the wine. He looked at Athos who was watching the sleeping figure.  
‘I think we should wait here a day. Not push her too hard.’

Athos sighed and nodded his head. 

‘Still think she was cared for?’ he asked. ‘Or was this about the attack on the road?’ Athos didn’t answer him. He took a drink and rubbed the glass against his brow still watching her. He turned to Aramis. ‘Yes, I think she was cared for and no, not only about the attack.’ He didn’t elaborate, and Aramis knew better than to press him for details. Athos never explained himself. 

In the morning, she sat at the table sipping at the hot drink the innkeeper brought her. She picked at the bread and cheese. Athos approached the table and sat across from her noting her pale face and red rimmed eyes. She had not yet looked at him. 

‘We can stay here another day, give you a chance to rest. Would that suit you?’ 

She glanced at him, surprised and smiled at him. ‘That is kind, but if we need to move on, I am able.’ 

‘We can take the time.’ They regarded each other and then she looked away. 

‘You are referring to last night,’ she said, discomfited. ‘I don’t remember much of it. I’m sorry if I caused you trouble.’

‘I didn’t think you did it on purpose,’ he replied lightly to her. He didn’t ask her the cause of the nightmare – it wasn’t time to ask her to share confidences. She dropped her eyes to the table, sighing deeply and making small circles on the table with a finger. She was troubled and unexpectedly uncomfortable with his steady gaze, waiting for her reply. 

What did she want? The closer they got to Paris the sadder she felt. She was getting farther and farther away from her home. Sukh was gone. Everyone she had ever loved was gone. She didn’t know the people waiting for her in Paris and she didn’t remember any life there. 

The men she traveled with guarded her carefully and skillfully. They were soldiers under orders and they would protect her with their lives. They were to bring her to Paris to the King. But if she arrived in Paris and the King dismissed her with a wave of his hand, those orders would no longer protect her. They could sling her over their shoulders and carry her off to use her as they wished, throwing her out afterwards with the rest of the garbage found in army garrisons. 

Suhk she whispered – can you hear me? She couldn’t remember a time without him. He had been ripped away from her and she felt the open wound of his absence. But he had been a stern master and would expect her to not allow her feelings to distract her from what she needed to do. During the day, she forced her self-control, but at night, she lay a distance away, turning her back to the fire and the others, allowing the tears to fall, to be overwhelmed by sorrow. She could feel the eyes of their leader on her, but she didn’t try to stop. She wasn’t sure she could stop.

He was watchful – this man across the table from her. She knew the nightmare last night had been bad. Her body felt battered, stiff, and sore and she was very tired. She would get into the saddle if that was expected of her. But the offer of a day of rest was unexpected and enticing. She tried to clear her head and concentrate. He was talking to her again. 

‘Porthos has found a small lake not far away. Would you like to go there?’ Her blue eyes widened in astonishment. ‘Yes,’ she said without thinking. ‘I would like that.’

Aramis and D’Artangan stayed in the village to secure supplies. Athos and Porthos rode with her to a small lake bordered by a meadow filled with wildflowers and green grasses waving in a warm breeze. It was beautiful, she thought, like a dream. Porthos took her horse’s reins, smiling at her tilting his chin in the direction of the lake. She looked at Athos and he nodded. 

She turned towards the path and then back to him. ‘May I swim?’ she asked. He raised his eyebrows, surprised, but nodded quickly. She couldn’t suppress her grin of pleasure and turned to walk quickly towards the water. A rocky outcropping afforded her some privacy and she removed her clothes, and in her chemise, she quickly slipped into the water. The water was cool, and she sank down to let it cover her shoulders and then submerged her head. She rose to turn onto her back floating, arms extended, gently stroking the water, and staring at the clear blue sky above her. She rolled to her stomach and began to swim. It felt good to stretch her muscles and she laughed with the unexpected pleasure. 

Porthos moved off to patrol the area around them. Athos climbed the rocks above the lake, sat down and from a distance, watched her swim. She had long clean strokes and swam with confidence and strength. She moved to the opposite shore and then turned to swim back. In the middle of the lake she dived, coming up with plants clutched in one hand and swam to the shore. She stood up, shaking her head vigorously, water spraying from her long hair. The wet chemise clung to her slender frame, her legs strong, the tattoo visible and the muscles in her arms flexed. She bent her head examining the plants in her hand and then dropped them back into the water. 

She pulled herself onto the low rock slab, twisting her hair to squeeze water from it. The rock was warm from the sun and she lay down to dry before dressing. She bent her knees and spread her arms away from her body. The sense of freedom was exhilarating, and the covering sunlight warmed her. She felt her eyes go heavy and begin to close. She rolled to one side. Travel, injury and worry were exacting their toll. Could she rest a moment? It was her last thought before sleep claimed her.

When she woke, the sun was lower in the sky, the breeze had cooled, and she was covered with a blue cape. She had been dreaming. She lay for a moment sleepy and warm under the cloak retrieving the images of her dream. She was at another lake swimming with a boy across a lake, laughing and splashing each other. They sat on the small beach sharing an apple. She turned to him and said his name. What was it? She couldn’t remember, only dark hair falling into his dark eyes, a thin body. 

She sat up and reached for her clothes and dressed quickly. She pulled her boots on, scooping up the cape, and scampered over the rocks. Aramis and Athos were sitting under a tree talking. They stood up as she approached. 

Aramis spread his arms expansively, stepping forward to meet her. He took her gently by her arms, turning her one way and another in mock examination. ‘Well’ he exclaimed,’ look at you.’  
He appraised her with smiling, easy affability, turning to Athos to deliver his report, ‘she needs to comb her hair, but otherwise she looks beautiful’ he pronounced. 

She couldn’t help but laugh at him. She handed the cape to Athos, blue eyes sparkling. He was relieved to see color in her cheeks and her eyes clear. He didn't like the delay, but it had done her good. 

Suddenly she frowned. ‘I’m hungry’ she announced. Aramis laughed, good humored at her commanding tone. 

‘Ah good! Then let us go find food – and lots of it.’ 

‘I might out eat Porthos tonight’ she said, smiling with him and turned to mount her horse. She did a slight jump to get her foot into the stirrup and pulled herself into the saddle. The two men exchanged glances, amused and relieved at her good humor and easy athleticism. 

Later, after supper, she sat at the table with the men. They talked to each other in low voices, laughing softly and drinking wine. She heard them as murmurings at a distance. She was lost in her own thoughts, her finger tracing, over and over a shape on the table. Suddenly she looked at the shape she was making – a letter. She stared at it for a moment, motionless. A dim memory shifted forward and clicked into place. She said softly to herself, ‘Lucien.’


	5. The Fight

The next few days were uneventful. The weather remained clear and the roads passable. They traveled easily together, the men jesting with each other and regaling her with tales of past adventures – each narrating their own role and laughing at each other’s embellishments. 

They encountered more travelers as they got closer to Paris. The taverns were populated with people going to and from the city. They had no difficulty finding a room for her – innkeepers would willingly throw out a resident to accommodate the King’s Musketeers. The men stayed close to her, rotating the watch outside her door. She preferred to sleep outdoors where the air was fresh and there were fewer people with which to contend. But Athos insisted on dry rooms if possible.

Several days from Paris they stopped for the night in a village, tethering their horses outside the only inn the village boasted. D’Artagnan and Aramis went to the stable to arrange care for the horses. Athos and Porthos led her into the inn, Athos looking for the innkeeper to inquire about rooms and Porthos taking a few steps to watch a card game. She stood just inside the door, looking at the crowded room and started to walk towards the fire to warm her hands and wait. The room was noisy with loud conversation, clanging dishware, arguments at gaming tables, calls for drink and food. 

Half-way across to the fireplace she stopped. One voice was being carried along the length of the room, above the others and drifting down to her. She didn’t look in the direction of the sound, rather she closed her eyes and let the voice float into her mind, weaving through her memories and remembering it. She had longed to hear this voice one more time. She saw its owner clearly – long hooked broken nose, greasy thin reddish hair, dark stubble on his sweating face and the scar that ran from the left side of his thin cruel mouth to his ear. He had torn his dirty foul-smelling coat as he dragged the screaming, struggling woman around the side of the carriage. He had sworn viciously and kicked her hard. 

She turned to scan the room for him. Her eyes wandered over men at cards, men standing at the bar and men sitting on benches by the fire. She stopped at a small group at a card table towards the side of the room, next to a window. It gave dim light to the illuminate the players. He was facing the window, sneering and challenging the other players, drinking, the wine dribbling down his chin. 

She watched him for a few moments - remembering him. The noise in the room receded and she heard the din of the room at a distance. Her vision blurred slightly at the periphery of where he sat. She slowed her breathing, tensing and relaxing muscles. She started to thread her way between the tables, wandering through the room, not walking directly to him. She moved slowly, stopping occasionally to smile at no one and everyone. Automatically she reached into her pocket for the dagger, but it was not there. The tall dark man had taken it from her. Sukh whispered to her – see little star - there are many weapons. 

Athos, waiting for the innkeeper, watched her. She was standing motionless in the center of the room, turning to look at the crowded room of travelers. She started to walk aimlessly between tables and benches, smiling absently at people who moved aside, for her or were seated at the tables. It seemed almost idle rambling around the room, but something told him it was not. He frowned and looked for Porthos. 

She passed the serving bar and casually picked up an empty wooden tray with metal corners, swinging it down at her side. She bumped into a fat drunken man, apologetically smiling at him, and opening her blue eyes wide. He stared at her, staggering as he moved closer to her, offering her a drink and a seat at his table, shoving another man to the floor. She dropped the tray and they both bent to pick it up, he leered at her breasts, she looked coyly at him as she accepted his drink, bathing him with the brilliance of her full smile, and moved away. He was momentarily stunned by this beautiful gift, calling out to her to come back. She shrugged helplessly and smiled again, turned away, and pocketed his dagger.

Athos was trying to move through the room without throwing people out of his way. He had seen the incident and didn’t understand what she was doing. He had a bad feeling. Where was Porthos?

She reached the table and stepped to the opposite side staring down at him. She should not draw his attention. She should just inflict the mortal wound without him or anyone knowing she was even here. But she wanted him to see her. 

He was in an argument with another player, baring his menacing yellow teeth, shouting accusations of cheating, and throwing his cards to the table. He took a drink from his tankard, wiped his mouth with the back of his dirty hand, looked up and noticed her. A slow suggestive smile curled his lips at the edges, his eyes roamed boldly over her body and he licked his lips. He started to say something and then stopped, narrowing his eyes at her. She set down the tray with the tankard and dropping her hands to the table leaning forward, looking into his face and smiling, but not with her eyes. 

‘Remember me?’ she asked softly. 

His lip twisted into a snarl and he stood up abruptly, knocking his chair over and spilling his drink onto the man next to him. She wasn’t sure if he intended to reach for her or run. It didn’t matter. As he pulled himself upright to his full height, she grabbed the tankard from the tray and threw it and the contents full into his face. He cried out angrily, swinging a fist at her and wiping at his eyes, stinging from the ale, with the other. She grasped the tray with both hands, rotating and pulling her arms back to the side as far as possible and swung it towards him hitting him as hard as she could squarely in the face.

Blood spurted from his nose and mouth. He roared with pain and fell back into the crowd behind him, tumbling into men and overturning tables. His arms wind milled wildly as he tried to stop himself from falling, his fists landing on those around him as they all landed in a pile on the floor. Men, drunk and easily insulted, cried out in anger and started swinging their fists. The fight ignited like wildfire, instantly raging around her, and engulfing the room. It was chaos, and nothing could be heard over the noise of the pandemonium. 

She stepped around the table toward him, blue eyes black with cold fury, waiting for him to get up. He got to his feet clumsily, blood running from his nose and mouth. He spits pieces of broken teeth on the floor, his lips draw back, snarling at her, and drew his sword. 

Athos was frantically trying to shove and fight his way through the room. He had seen her hit the man and the fight break out. He could only see her intermittently between scuffling bodies, but he saw the sword. He yelled for Porthos who was picking up men and throwing them away from him. The room was a melee of pummeling and flying bodies, overturned tables and flying chairs and dishes. Athos deflected a blow from an advancing man and pointed in her direction. 

‘She’s there’ he shouted. Porthos nodded and turned, shouldering his way through the crowd, repelling blows and when that didn’t work he delivered some. Men were jumping on his back, grabbing hold of his arms causing him to stagger and the combined weight was slowing his progress. He was in danger of collapsing under a pile of drunken men. 

Athos was trying to see her through the scrapping bodies and not get knocked down. He didn’t draw his sword. So far it was just a fist fight – no weapons, except for the one pointed at her.

The man lunged at her, cursing and sneering. She danced away easily, taunting him, and he growled at her with uncontrolled fury. She kept the table between them and he thrust angrily at her trying to reach her. This couldn’t go on too long. He would lose interest in her and try to leave. She would have to get closer. She stepped back quickly and reached into her pocket and felt the dagger. She pulled it out and held it at her side. She could easily throw it and hit her target. But it wasn’t enough.

She moved around the table. Men were careless when attacking women – they didn’t expect resistance or if faced with defiance, they were confident in their superior power and took no notice. Strength alone could be enough, but speed and agility were formidable weapons. Patience little star counseled Sukh quietly. 

She lifted the dagger and stepped toward him. He laughed at her, pressed his thin cruel lips together and lunged at her, back leg fully extended, thrusting his arm and sword as far as he could to strike her and slightly off balance. He had made a mistake. It was all she needed. 

She leaned away, the sword missing its main target, but grazing her left arm. She moved so swiftly that she was a blur to his eyes, grasping his arm, pulling and sliding herself towards him and under the sword, on his back and then jumping to his side before he could react. He turned snarling to stab at her again, staggering and the sword dipping toward her, but she did not move, her eyes not leaving him. She waited.

A thin crimson seam appeared on his neck, blood seeping slowly from it. It widened quickly as the flow of blood increased. Consumed with anger and confusion, he had not felt the blade slicing through his neck as she drew the dagger across it. He dropped his sword and pressed his hands to his neck, trying to hold back the flow. The blood oozed through his fingers, running down his hands and his arms, dripping onto the floor. He took staggering steps toward her rasping in anger and pain. She did not move. He dropped to his knees, eyes wide and unseeing. He reached out a hand to grab at her, missed and fell flat to the floor. 

She looked up. From across the room Athos was staring at her, shock and disbelief on his face. The fight was still going on around them, but it was now a halfhearted effort. Drunken men were swinging and missing more than making contact. They had lost interest in the fight, forgetting how it had started. She looked steadily at him, her eyes cold and sorrowful. 

Move! Sukh whispered to her. You must leave now! She picked up a chair and threw it at the window shattering the glass. She jumped through it and ran for her horse.


	6. Aftermath....

Athos tore across the room, shoving his way through the crowd, and burst through the door, stumbling into the yard. Aramis and D’Artagnan were running towards him from the stable. 

‘Which way!’ he shouted at them. 

‘There!’ Aramis pointed with his arm knowing what and who he meant. Porthos erupted from the tavern, confusion and fury in his face and roaring. 

'What the hell?’ he demanded from Athos. Athos was striding toward the stables. 

‘Stay here!’ he ordered the others. ‘She may double back.’ 

‘I’ll go with you,’ D’Artagnan started to follow him. 

‘No,’ he replied tersely. ‘I go alone.’ The men looked at each other uneasily. 

‘Are you sure?’ called Aramis. 

But Athos was already on his horse and at a hard gallop after her. Porthos ran for his horse to follow, ignoring the order. He had seen Athos’ face. 

Athos rode hard after her. He kept careful watch to the sides of the road, looking for signs of where she might leave it. He was certain that he would only find her if she wanted him to. 

He was furious. The vague suspicions about her that had been hovering at the edge of his consciousness leapt to the forefront of his thoughts. He had been a fool. She was young, a woman – that’s all he had seen, and he had misjudged her completely. She had known from the beginning that she had tricked him. He swore under his breath, gritting his teeth in anger. She was not a young vulnerable girl. She was a murderer, trained in treachery and death.

Why hadn’t he seen it clearly? It was glaringly obvious that someone taught her to use sword and dagger. Subjected to a brutal attack, she hadn’t succumbed to the immobilization and disorientation that comes from blind fear and panic. She had exercised self-control, seized chances to defend herself, escape and hide. She had killed her assailant and didn’t run blindly but had picked up weapons. She had shown restraint and patience, ignoring cold, injuries and thirst to remain hidden. None of these actions were common to the daughters of the pampered aristocracy. These actions were the result of preparation, training, and practice. These were the actions of a soldier.

And now, she had created a diversion to enable her to stalk and kill a man. She had never been under his control and she probably had the ability to easily slip away from them at any time. He wondered if they would have been able to find her. She was a liar and a murderer. 

He didn’t have far to go before he saw it - large broken branches from a small tree bordering the road. She was making no effort to conceal her movements. She wasn’t trying to escape. She wanted him to find her. The contradictory rampage of thoughts in his mind was giving him a headache. He made no sense to himself. 

She turned off the road hoping to find water. She needed to clean and bandage the wound in her arm. She knew he would come looking for her and she would not try to hide. Better to get it over with quickly. They had treated her fairly and followed their orders with diligence and a clear sense of duty. The best of soldiers was a brotherhood of men, and she had liked being part of that for a short time again. 

She found a stream and followed it to an outcropping, the water flowing down the rock face clear and clean. She stripped and crouched under it, scrubbing at her face and body to remove the blood spatter from him and the sadness that was descending over her. She took a cloth and blanket from her saddle bag, and dressed the wound, grabbing one end of the bandage between her teeth and pulling it tight. She put her damp clothes on and wrapped the blanket around her. She leaned against a tree and lowering herself to sit down. She was cold and shivering but didn’t have the energy to build a fire. She waited for him and what followed. She owed him that much at least. Could she turn back and go home? 

The two Musketeers rode along the path that followed the stream, winding their way through the trees. The light was going from the day and they needed to find her soon. The path opened suddenly into a small clearing. She was wrapped in her blanket, sitting against a tree, eyes closed. She opened her eyes, and scrambled to her feet, waiting for them to dismount. 

Athos turned to look at her. His face was carved from a rock, mouth drawn in a thin grim line, eyes black with anger. He stood staring at her for a moment and then strode to her. 

‘Are you injured?’ his voice was low and tight. She shook her head, but he was already pulling her arm from the blanket to inspect the wound, tilting her chin to examine her face. He dropped his hands and his eyes bored into hers. Porthos stood silently, watching them.

‘You should have told me you saw him,’ he said tonelessly. He was struggling to control his anger.

‘And what would you have done?’ She was defensive and met his angry eyes steadily. ‘Would you have killed him?’ 

‘I would have wanted to’ he said forcefully. ‘We all would have wanted to for what he did. But we would have taken him to the magistrates. That the law,’ he was vehement and spoke with emphasis. ‘We follow the law.’

Now, she twisted her mouth scornfully, mocking him, ‘Oh, you would have wanted to! Since when do soldiers care about the law’ she scoffed. ‘As long as they fight for their master, they can do what they like – no one stops them - murder, rape, looting and whatever else their madness demands!’ 

He stared hard at her, then grabbed her chin and forced her face to his. ‘Is that what you think of me? Of us?’ he demanded black eyes boring into hers. She tried to pull her face away, but he held her firmly. 

‘Are you not answerable to the law either?’ he growled. She averted her eyes and did not speak. She did not trust her voice.

His anger exploded, grabbing her shoulders roughly, shouting at her. ‘You cut a man’s throat! Did you think I would just ignore that?’ 

She twisted away from him shoving against him forcefully. ‘What upsets you more?’ she snarled, ‘that I killed a man or that I killed a man by cutting his throat? What manner of death do you find less offensive for a woman, my lord?’ She laughed bitterly at him, her blue eyes cold and contemptuous.

‘You taunted him,’ he charged her angrily; still not believing what he had seen her do. He jabbed his finger at her accusingly. ‘You started the fight as a diversion, so you could kill him!’

She was flushed with self-righteous fury, her voice tight, ‘you didn’t see what he did to her. He deserved to die.’ 

Porthos stepped between them, a restraining hand on Athos shoulder, and shook his head. 

‘Yes!’ she lost all control, shouting at him. ‘I wanted to kill him!’ She was breathless with fury. ‘I wanted him to see his death coming from my hands! That is how she died. I wanted to kill him for what he did to her and what he would have done to me!’ Hot tears were filling her eyes. 

Porthos started to put his hands on her shoulders, but she backed away from him, her mouth twisting into a snarl. The warning in her icy blue eyes was clear. He dropped his hands.

‘You should have let us handle it,’ Porthos said quietly. 

‘You weren’t there!’ she hissed. ‘No one was there.’ She meant the attack. She had been alone.

Her legs were shaking. Suddenly, she no longer had the strength to support the weight of her wrath. She sank to the ground, dropping her head into her hands. She was engulfed in uncontrollable shuddering fury and tears. 

Porthos knelt in front of her, instinctively reaching to touch her reassuringly. She didn’t pull away. 

‘No, I wasn’t, and I wish I had been there to protect you and her. You did not have to take this on yourself.’ His voice was soft, patient and sympathetic. He didn’t blame her for wanting the man dead. He didn’t blame her for killing him.

Fury fueled her defiance and challenge to Athos’ anger. Compassion from Porthos defused that fury and sapped her strength. She sucked in her breath and clapped her hands over her ears, not wanting to listen anymore. It was too late.

She could hear the woman screaming, crying, and begging for her life, the sound and feel of clothing ripping, groping hands, grunting men, and her own breath being choked out of her. She remembered the cold night and how she clutched the sword to her as she lay on the damp earth, as though its deadly blade could keep her warm. She could feel the sharp pain in her bare feet as she ran, branches tearing at the skin on her face, arms and legs. Tears flooded her eyes and flowed down her cheeks. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against his shoulder, sobs racking her body. For the first time in her long unwelcomed journey, she released the fear that had threatened to crush her and the rage she had summoned to fight back and live. He put his arms gently around her shoulders. 

Athos felt his anger slowly dissipate as he watched her shuddering form. He pulled a kerchief from his pocket, and handed it to Porthos to wipe her face, reddened and swollen from her tears. She was trembling, her shoulders twitching nervously. He turned to get the horses. It was growing dark and very cold. They couldn’t stay here any longer. 

Porthos helped her stand and lifted her to sit sideways in front of Athos. He covered her with his cloak. She was trembling with cold or emotions or both and slumped against him. He put his arm around her, pulling her closer to him, trying to warm her with his own heat. He urged his horse forward. 

They rode into the yard and Aramis came out of the inn. He lifted her down from the saddle.

‘I can walk’ she said weakly and pulled away from him. He nodded but kept a hand under her arm. 

‘There’s a room inside’ he told her gently. She nodded and walked, unsteadily, to the door. Aramis looked at the two men – ‘she seems feverish. I’ll get some water.’ Athos nodded wearily at him and went into the tavern to wait. He wanted a drink. The innkeeper was still sweeping up the remains of the fight.

Aramis brought warm water and a cloth to the room and examined the wound on her arm. He cleaned it again and replaced the bandage. He looked at the young woman, her face grey with fatigue, ‘there is hot water and a bit of soap for washing.’ He hesitated, wanting to say more to her. She continued to look at the floor and didn’t move. He patted her arm. 

‘I’ll bring you some food.’

He left her alone so she could attend to herself. She swayed slightly on trembling legs. She undressed and washed slowly, using her hands to lift the warm water to her face. She rubbed the wet cloth with soap and wiped her cold body. When she was finished, she pulled her chemise on, lay down on the bed and drew the blankets over her. She had barely a thought before she was asleep.

Athos entered the room quietly, pausing in the doorway, listening to her steady breathing. He stepped to a chair in the corner of the room and dropped into it. He rubbed his face and leaned back closing his eyes. He was exhausted, his mind racing. Aramis entered soundlessly, bringing wine and food and lit a candle on the table. He looked at his brother and said quietly, ‘I’ll be outside.’ 

Athos took a long drink of wine. He sat in the dim room, watching the still form on the bed, trying to assemble his thoughts. Who had taught her to use sword and dagger? Who had taught her to suppress fear, look for opportunities, and act decisively? Who had intended for her to act as a soldier?

D’Artagnan stepped into the room to take the watch, but Athos sent him away. He was drained but would not have been able to sleep. He felt some private community with her – the two of them in a darkened room filled with their secrets. He felt a thrumming link through her to his past and, to his father. He had managed to not think about his father for a very long time. It was too painful to look back at his brief happiness, his father’s disappointment, his brother’s death and all that had followed. 

He looked again at her. She had been his father’s wish for his future. Did he feel some duty to her for the sake of his father? But there was more than duty. He was shocked to realize that he felt protective. 

He stretched out his legs, laying his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. 

He was listening to music – someone was playing the pianoforte. His mother played beautifully, and he liked to sit where she couldn’t see him and listen to her. Anne was sitting with him – but she usually avoided his mother with her sad eyes and didn’t care for the music. She only wanted to be with him and that is what he loved – that she was his alone. He possessed her completely. Her dark hair was gleaming in the candlelight and he reached for her to turn her face to his.. and gasped, eyes widening in shock and confusion, yanking his hand away. The face staring at him was smooth and featureless - no eyes, or nose or mouth…. 

He jerked awake, shuddering and breathing hard. He was in a room, a candle burning low on a table. A thin light was struggling to stream into the room through the small dirty window. It was almost dawn. He looked around, disoriented, rubbing his face. He reached for the wine bottle with a trembling hand and drank deeply from it. He looked toward the bed. It was empty. 

He swore softly and got to his feet, striding to the door. He walked quickly to the stairs, leaping down two at a time. He reached the floor and came to a stop. 

She had awakened before dawn, dressed and crept silently from the room. She didn’t want to wake him. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, Aramis stood up and smiled at her. She smiled back and was glad to see him. He was the most affable of the men, with a generous nature. He beckoned her to come to where he was sitting. 

‘You look much better,’ he said, pulling out a chair for her. ‘Allow me to check your arm.’ He started to unwind the bandage.

Now she was eating porridge and drinking the hot tea the innkeeper had brought to her. Her arms and legs felt weak and shaky and there was a hollow feeling in her stomach. The food was tasteless to her, like sawdust in her mouth, but she forced herself to swallow it. She needed to get stronger. She must be ready for what was to come next. 

Athos approached her and sat on the opposite side. She regarded him steadily, spooning the food into her mouth slowly. She was not what he presumed. She hadn’t tried to deceive him, but of course men always thought, when misjudging a woman, that it was her fault, and so they were deceived and not just wrong. She could see Sukh smiling at her – good little star, he whispered. You should always be what they do not anticipate. It will save your life. 

She decided to speak first, ‘I am not what you expected.’ Her voice was soft, her irridescent blue eyes large, guileless, and sad. ‘I am sorry that you find me unfavorable.’

An interesting choice of words he thought. But of course, she wouldn’t know that. 

‘You are not what I expected,’ he admitted. He gave a wry smile, ‘Perhaps daughters of the aristocracy are being educated differently these days.’

He leaned slightly towards her, ‘I do not find you unfavorable.’ 

‘Why do you study me?’

He started, surprised at her question. ‘What do you mean?’ he delayed a truer answer. She gave no reply. 

She was quiet, waiting for him. He hadn’t fully realized how still she could be, and yet a sense of readiness emanated from her. He judged she was equally capable of springing across the table and burying a knife into him, or away from the table and through the door before he could catch her. Or perhaps she was simply sitting, no threat to him or anyone, patiently waiting for him to speak to her. It was a disorienting series of possibilities. 

She tried again, her voice quiet and soft, ‘Did you know my French family?’ 

He would hardly have known any other family, but the specificity of her identification had more to do with her lack of familial identification with her own French family.

‘I know our families were acquainted with each other. My father would have known your father,’ he said carefully. He had a memory of a large stately house at the end of a long drive. He had traveled to it with his father. It was a long time ago. He pushed the memory back. It was not the time to tell her of what linked them. 

’I want to go home. I will find a way,’ she stated softly. She didn’t mean Paris. 

He was startled and frowned at her. She couldn’t possibly turn back. He wouldn’t allow her to try. He pursed his lips, considering how to answer her.   
‘You have suffered a long and difficult journey,’ he stopped, not sure how to proceed. 

He suggested a compromise, ‘we continue to Paris and you meet Treville. He has been looking for you for a long time. He knew your family and can answer many questions. There are other people who will remember your mother. You have a house, lands and tenants you’ve never seen or met.’ 

She studied her hands. They both knew he could force her if needed. He leaned forward across the table, and gave a small smile, attempting to be disarming, ‘there are ships sailing from French ports east all the time.’ 

He understood that she was uncertain about what lay ahead of her and confused by her uncertainty. She did not know where she belonged. She didn’t remember her mother or her home in France. Nothing was familiar, she was surrounded by strangers and soldiers and she didn’t know what was expected of her. He knew what she believed could happen to her at their hands if, upon their arrival, the King had no use for her. It would be useless to try to convince her otherwise. In another life, she had seen such unrestrained horrific events unfold. She did not know who to trust. It startled him to realize that he wanted her to trust him. 

‘Alright,’ she said softly. ‘We continue to Paris.’

He started to stand up and then turned back to her. Without thinking he reached across the table and touched her hand. She looked up at him, questioning.

‘Will you tell me?’ he asked expectantly. She studied his face, not stern and harsh, but inquisitive and encouraging. He wanted her to tell him her story. He wanted her to trust him.

‘Yes’


	7. The Story

‘Do you remember when you left for the east with your father?’ Athos asked her. 

They were riding together, having started early in the next morning. D’Artagnan was riding ahead of them, scouting for a good place to camp for the night. Porthos and Aramis were behind them, talking and laughing together. The air was crisp, and the sky cloudless. The clear weather and good road put the traveling group in good spirits. Also, the extraordinary events of the previous days had resulted in establishing an uncommon connection between her and the men. 

Athos sensed this shift and while he didn’t quite pinpoint its characteristics – he decided the put it to work. So, he was asking questions. Which, so far, she was answering. 

‘Yes,’ she said. She remembered that day. No one had told her that she was to go with her father. Her brother had recently died and the entire household had been silent and grim. She spent most of her time alone in the school room or trying to escape her governess and run to the woods. Her mother stayed in her rooms and did not ask for her. Her father remained in his study. The servants brought meals to her room. She saw no one else.

She was in the school room, lying on her stomach on the carpet, turning the pages of an atlas. She was studying maps and tracing the blue lines for rivers and brown markings for mountains. The room was filled with these diagrammatic representations of what was known by intrepid surveyors as well as what was imagined. There were maps pinned to the walls, two globes, and several versions of atlases. Her father loved to travel, and she could trace her father’s wanderings across the world and the life of the man she rarely saw. Together, when he was home, they explored these maps, the places he had gone and the people he had encountered. They also studied the places he yearned to visit. 

She looked up as a big man strode purposely into the school room and told her he was taking her downstairs to her father. She got up quickly and backed away from the man, preparing to dart around him and run for her room. But he grabbed her easily, picked her up and carried her down the stairs. She tried to squirm her way free of him, but he held her firmly and ignored her resistance, her cries of protest, and her fists raining down blows on his head and shoulders. Her father and mother were standing at the bottom of the stairs. Her mother was crying and pleading with her father, but he ignored her. She remembered thinking that it was the first time she had seen her mother since her brother died. The man put her in the carriage that already held her maid and governess, and slammed the door, locking it. She screamed and cried, beating on the door. Her father was in another carriage and no one heard her. 

Athos frowned, ‘you must have been frightened.’ 

‘I don’t remember being frightened, I only remember being furious. But my maid and governess were crying and frightened enough for all three of us. She shook her head ruefully at the memory of the two women huddled in the corners of the carriage. ‘They wailed all the way to Marseille!’ 

It was a long carriage ride through the night and she soon fell asleep. When she woke they were in a port city with ships anchored. They were to get on a ship and sail east. She had never seen the ocean or a ship. She remembered it was cold and her father fastened her cloak around her securely. She held tight to his hand as they walked along the road fronting the port. There was a great deal of activity and noise, and she was repeatedly jostled by men carrying heavy bags. Men were running up and down the gangplanks to and from ships, carrying all manner of cargo, tools, ropes, and trunks, coops holding chickens, and herding goats. Men were shouting and directing the movements of large cranes swinging overhead, lowering their cargo, bundled in huge nets, into the interior holds. Her father was talking to her, pointing out their ship and its features, but she could barely hear him above the din of the port. She forgot she was far from her mother and that she didn’t know where she was going. It was both thrilling and frightening. The captain walked down the gangway to greet her father. He was a big man with a huge beard and a booming voice. He leaned down to peer into her wide eyed excited face and asked her if she was frightened of being at sea. She told him firmly she was a very good swimmer. He straightened up and shouted with laughter.

‘They laughed at my untutored confidence in my sea survival skills,’ she was smiling at the recollection. Athos smiled too. He could see her, standing small but resolute, declaring herself. Not unlike the first time he had encountered her in the inn.

‘It seemed we were a long time at sea,’ she said. ‘To pass the time, my father taught me to play chess. He had books, and I had lessons in Latin and mathematics. I had many pages of sums and multiplication,’ she rolled her eyes at the memory of her long afternoons. ‘I was well occupied. ’ She smiled at the recollection of her time with her father. It was the longest amount of time she had ever spent with him. 

‘You were the eldest?’ she asked him. He nodded. ‘You must have been much in your father’s company,’ she said to him. ‘Did you know your father well?’ 

‘My father left the lessons in Latin and mathematics, among other subjects to tutors,’ he replied. ‘I knew well what he expected of me.’ He didn’t want to talk about his father. But she was answering his questions and he thought it fair that he respond to hers.

‘I must have asked my father thousands of questions about our destination, what he did there and what I would do,’ she said. ‘He hadn’t given my life much thought. He had expected to bring my brother. I think on impulse, he took me.’ 

She resumed her story. 

 

The governess and the maid had not come with them on the trip. They were too frightened and asked to be released from their employment. He considered arranging another governess. Instead he took her with him almost everywhere he needed to go to fulfill his duties in the King’s service. She was curious about people and their lives, and an affinity for languages. She was fascinated with all manner of customs, enthusiastically ate foreign food and drink and made friends with local children. She tried to be useful to her father, helping him with his papers and reminding him of appointments. 

He allowed her many freedoms. During the times they were settled for any period, her father retained tutors for Latin, Greek, mathematics and religious studies. There were evenings when they sat together and talked about her lessons. 

‘I think he enjoyed my unorthodox education,’ she said. ‘I realize now, that he lived his own life well outside the normal societal rules governing noble men.’

‘So educating his daughter, as would normally be reserved for a boy, was an act of rebellion?’ asked Athos. Her father was an unusual man. He thought he might have liked him. For the first time he thought about his own father's friendship with this uncommon father and diplomat. His own understanding of his father would not have expected it.

‘I don’t really know,’ she allowed, and looked at him with amused eyes, ‘perhaps it was just a way to keep an overactive and curious child occupied.’ 

Whatever her father’s thoughts were, he indulged her zeal for education and travel with him. She was girl who slipped between two worlds. The shackles of social expectations and restrictions for girls and women of each did not fully encompass her life and she fully embraced the freedom. Her father put off any thought of the consequences for returning, someday, to France and the constricted life to which she would be expected to conform.

They occupied rooms in a large private home. She had her studies in the solar and played along the balconies that extended the length of the four wings of the house. There was a large internal courtyard and gardens. It was an arrangement of convenience as there were times when her father could not take her with him. So she lived with the family of one of her father’s closest friends. Dalir, was a kind, gentle and scholarly man, who loved books, and plants. He opened his home and his heart to his friend’s child. Dalir had hoped for a son who would also love his books and plants, but his wife, Fatima, had given him daughters whose lives would focus on husbands and children and caring for him when he was elderly. 

It was his western daughter who shared his passion for learning, and his interest and practice in medicinal plants. He was pleased at her curiosity and shared his knowledge in their cultivation and their healing properties. His patients included members of the royal family as well as nobles. He also had a small clinic for those unable to pay him for his services. She helped him with his medicinal garden and learned to prepare some medicines. She kept careful records as he directed and often went with him as he visited his patients. 

‘I loved being part of their family,’ she was wistful at the memory. They rode in silence for a while. How different from her family, he thought. Warmth, sisters, gentle people who cared for her, encouraged her curiosity. She had been loved. He did not disturb her reminiscences.

‘And then one day my father announced that it was time for us to return to France.’ 

She was growing up and it was time to think about his responsibilities to her. She would inherit the family estates and titles. He said it was time to prepare to be married. Not long before they left for the east, her father had settled on a marriage contract for her.

Athos’ hand, holding his water flask and halfway to his mouth, stopped. He shifted his eyes to her, waiting. 

Her father had told her he had chosen her future husband carefully, that it was a good match. She would be taken care of and not mistreated. They would discuss it when he returned from his trip. She should start preparing herself to return to France. 

She gave a short mirthless chuckle, ‘so that’s what I was to look forward to – a lifetime with a total stranger and be grateful that I would be taken care of and not mistreated.’

‘You doubted your father’s knowledge of the man?’ Athos managed to keep his voice even. 

She turned to him, blue eyes wide and flashing, ‘people are good at hiding their true selves. The man could have been a monster, not taken care of me and beaten me every night. But I would be married to him and bound to endure whatever was delivered to me!’ Her blue eyes flashed angrily, and she was out of breath with imagining the marital hell she had avoided. 

Athos thought it was probably best if he offered no comment. But of course, he couldn’t help it.

‘You have a poor opinion of marriage,’ he said carefully. He swore viciously to himself – why did he say anything!

‘I have a poor opinion of others making decisions for me,’ she replied tartly. ‘I’m not something to be traded or bought.’ This time he managed to keep silent.

She did not want to go back to France. She barely remembered her life there and she certainly didn’t want to marry. She didn’t care about titles or inheritances. She wanted to stay with the people she knew and had come to love as her own family. 

She sighed deeply, glancing at him and said, ‘and then, my father did not return. I don’t remember where he had been going. He just didn’t come back.’ Her voice was flat. She offered no further explanation.

‘Did anyone look for him?’ asked Athos. 

‘Yes, I think so. But I wasn’t given much information. Other things happened and there wasn’t time.’ 

He frowned, confused by her last statement. What had happened? He started to ask for an explanation and then stopped. Either she didn’t know and that was troubling to her, or she did know and didn’t want to talk about it. 

He still wanted to know more. How she had come to be trained? What was the meaning of the symbols on her shoulder and back? How had she gotten the knife scar? How had she come to be forgotten? There were too many unknowns about her. But perhaps these were questions for tomorrow. 

Mentally he rebuked Treville. The Captain should have briefed him on exactly what he knew about her, why he had been so agitated and the urgency to find her and bring her to Paris. Was there a chance that someone was pursuing her? He didn’t know what they could encounter. Already there had been too many surprises.

D’Artagnan reined up beside Athos. ‘I found a place not too far ahead that would make a good camp for the night.’ Athos hesitated, looking down the road. He preferred for her to stay indoors at night, but an early stop from the travel might be good also.  
He nodded at D’Artagnan. ‘All right, we will stop there.’


	8. The Story continues.....

D’Artagnan had found a good place to make camp. They turned off the main road and continued a short distance to a clearing surrounded by low shrubs and woods. The gurgling, splashing sounds of a running stream, swollen with rain water, could be heard nearby. Porthos, and Athos disappeared into the woods to hunt, leaving D’Artagnan to attend to the horses, build a fire and set up camp.

She followed Aramis to the stream. He removed his boots and long coat, rolled up his pants waded into the center of the stream. He found a deep pool, stood motionless and waited patiently to snatch any fish foolish enough to meander too long around his still legs. She watched him for a few moments and then wandered upstream. She wanted to find a private place to bath and rinse out clothes. 

She didn’t have to go far before she spied water pooling and draining slowly around several overlapping fallen trees. The pool was exposed to the sun and the water would be warmed. She had brought the sliver of soap Aramis had given her. She took off her clothes, washing them as best she could, and spreading them out on low bushes in the full sun. She lowered herself into the water. She soaped her body and hair several times, dragging her fingernails through her hair. She lay quietly for a moment in the cool water listening to the sounds of the woods around her, the gentle lapping of tiny waves against the shore and splashing of water as it flowed over rocks. 

She could hear the two men returning from their hunt, talking in low tones to each other as they moved through the wood. She had hunted many times with Sukh, spending nights on the open plain or in the foothills. But they did not talk as they walked – Sukh was attentive to all sounds and would never have allowed idle conversation to distract either of them.

She pulled herself from the pool and dropped her chemise over her head, pulling on her pants. She bent over and flung her wet hair over her head and started to comb it with her fingers, gently tugging at the tangles. She hoped they would come upon a larger village tomorrow. She was determined to make some changes to her wardrobe. Everything was getting a little thin and worn. She wanted a comb.

She heard the crunch of boots on rock and still holding her head upside down, turned. Athos stopped some distance from her. 

‘Food will be ready soon,’ he said. She nodded and heard him walk away. She gathered up the rest of her meager clothing and hurried after him. She was hungry.

After supper, she went to check her horse. She ran her hands over the mare’s legs, lifting and examining her feet, looking carefully for any sign of tenderness. She drew long strokes with the grooming brush over the mare’s silky dun colored coat, singing to her softly. She had pieces of an apple in her pocket and she fed the mare as she worked. Athos’ horse nickered at her softly and she reached to scratch behind his ears. The big horse pushed his nose against her chest and she laid her cheek against his big forehead, rubbing his neck. She fed him the last bit of the apple.

‘He likes you better than me,’ Athos said. He was leaning against a tree, arms crossed over his chest, watching her. 

She smiled, ‘he likes the apple. He likes it when I sing.’

‘I need to sing to my horse?’ he asked with mock amazement.

‘Well if you have no apples…..’ she shrugged and shook her head at him and smiling. 

They walked back to the fire. The three men were working on their gear – rubbing a saddle, cleaning muskets, repairing a harness. They sat together in companionable silence. 

Porthos glanced up at her as she was beginning to sit next to him, and asked, ‘who taught you to use a dagger and sword?’

Athos eyes flickered to Porthos, frowning. He had been thinking about how to broach this part of her story. He didn’t want to destroy the steady improvement in his interactions with her, but he wanted to know how she came to be skilled and to what purpose. Who exactly was he bringing to Paris and into the royal court? He had been treading carefully, asking questions all around that topic. 

Unfortunately, he had not briefed the others on his concern or plan. He waited. Would she answer?

She was silent and for a moment and Athos thought she was not going to respond. She shifted her weight, tucking her legs under her. She looked at the men. They were continuing with their work, not looking at her. Only Athos was watching her. 

‘My father had to leave me for periods of time and he worried about my security. So, he made inquiries at the palace and one day a man appeared to safeguard the household and me.’ She stopped and let her memory drift back to their first meeting. She felt a knot forming in her chest and tears in her eyes. She took a deep steadying breath and continued.

Sukh was a walking, but rarely talking, human mountain. She had to tilt her head back as far as possible to look up at his face. She couldn’t lift his armor. He could raise his outstretched arm with her hanging onto it and swing her back and forth. His face was carved from stone, black eyes inscrutable. 

He proudly wore two curved menacing swords, daggers with ornate handles, carved and jeweled, and a musket obligingly. Sukh believed that a man of honor fought his enemy with a blade. He was an excellent marksman, as were all the elite palace guard, but he regarded the gun as something of a cheat. A small child could kill any man with a musket. But only a warrior, using strength, skill, and courage could defeat his enemies in sword combat. 

‘He was a Janissary,’ she said and looked at them askance. Athos nodded at her – they knew of the elite infantry corps that formed the Ottoman Sultan’s household troops, and bodyguards. Famed for their internal cohesion, strict discipline, and training, the units had been formed from slaves made up, primarily, of captured young Christian boys. These unwilling conscripts could convert to Islam. Forbidden to marry or form families, the Janissaries dedicated their entire lives to serving and protecting their Ottoman masters. They were feared throughout the empire.

Sukh was no longer in his youth, but still a formidable warrior. He participated in the training of young princes and sons of the nobility in the arts of battle. She often crept into the balcony above that ringed the training room and watched them from between the slats. When the room had emptied for the day, she slipped into the room, trying to repeat their movements, swinging the smooth rounded wooden stick employed in fighting. 

He watched her from the shadow of the doorway. It was bold that she was there. She had an instinct for the rhythm of the steps, and positioning of the fighting stick. He walked toward her slowly, arms crossed over his big chest. He nodded at her and she took the first stance. He walked around her, lifting her elbow, pushing her foot with his toe to straighten it. 

Thereafter, every day after the boys and young men left, Sukh put the fighting sticks in her hands and watched her, correcting, and sparing with her. She loved the rigor of the exercise, the discipline, and the dance of the movements. One day Sukh walked into the training room carrying a rolled-up rug. He pulled a sword from it and handed it to her. It was light, and the hilt was sized smaller to fit her hand. 

‘So, I’m good with a sword if it’s half the size of a man’s,’ she chuckled. ‘Do you have many of those in your garrison weapons store? I lost mine and could use another,’ she was teasing him.

Porthos snorted in amusement. ‘Not too many of those lying around when you need one,’ he said. She laughed again and nodded. 

‘There were other lessons besides wielding of fighting sticks and swords,’ she said. 

There came a time when Sukh’s training included other skills, testing endurance, challenges to solving problems and developing patience. These were skills best suited for women. Use this first, he counseled, tapping her forehead with his finger. Patience was a weapon. Solve one problem at a time. If not, there will be no second problem to worry about. 

One time he rode with her, blindfolded, out onto the high plain. He pulled her off her horse, and left her without horse, jacket or sword or dagger. He told her to go home. Then he rode away. It took her three days to get back. 

She smiled at them, ‘I liked a challenge. It was a game, a puzzle to be solved.’

Aramis was shocked, ‘he left you there? With nothing?’

She smiled, ‘I didn’t see him, but I think he was somewhere watching me. Of course, at the time I thought I was entirely alone.’

It wasn’t completely unique that a girl or woman be trained as spies or assassins. Delivering a poison easily was best accomplished by a smiling child who often did not know what was in the vial they were pouring into a flask. 

‘Not that I was ever going to be use in that capacity,’ she laughed. ‘My father would have had something to say about that.’ 

‘Dalir worried that my father would be displeased,’ she said, looking into the fire. The discussion with Dalir had been long and difficult. There had been conferences with Sukh that she was not privy to. In the end, Dalir allowed her to continue. And – her father had never returned.

‘Dalir wasn’t sure being trained in weapons was suitable for my future as someone’s dutiful wife,’ she joked. 

‘Might be hard to find a husband who would be tolerant of that,’ advised Aramis. ‘Most men want to do the defending, not delegate it to their wives.’ The men exchanged looks and laughed. 

‘Well then I guess it is good I’m already married,’ she said. The silence that followed was deafening. She looked up, startled at four faces agape and staring at her. Athos was frowning and, for the moment, completely speechless. 

‘Really?’ Aramis was first to find his voice, trying to control its rise in complete astonishment. ‘You are married? Where is your husband?’ 

‘In the northern territories’ she replied, confused by their open expressions of disbelief. Was it wrong that she was married? 

‘I was told he was an affluent man, with many goat herds,’ she said hoping that his prosperity would assuage their obvious distress. Perhaps they thought the man inappropriate. 

‘You were told? He’s a goat herder?’ Porthos was trying to contain his amusement. He found the situation hilarious – a daughter of the French aristocracy, trained in sword and gun, and now married to an Ottoman goat herder. 

He pointed to Athos, his big shoulders shaking with laughter, ‘I can’t wait to see you try to explain all this to Treville.’ 

She smiled in confusion at Porthos, trying to understand their shock and amazement.

‘The palace arranged it - after my father disappeared. I think the Sultan thought that if the French King didn’t want me anymore, a husband could be useful.’ She explained this as though the practicality of the matter should be obvious to them. Why did they continue to stare at her as though she had two heads?

D’Artagnan, his voice tinged with disbelief, asked, ‘how is it that he allowed you to leave the country?’

‘Oh, I never lived with him’ she said absently, turning to arrange her blankets for sleeping. ‘I never met him.’

‘But now that I am here, or if anyone else tried to marry me, my husband should be compensated.’ She yawned and stretched out her legs. 

‘Compensated?’ asked Athos, finally recovering his voice and faculties. He was however confused not only by her marriage, but now the additional complication of international monetary obligations. 

‘Yes, with goats or horses. I guess money would be acceptable too’ she said and yawned again, lying down in her blankets. 

The men were silent, frowning and still staring at her and then each other, mulling over their separate thoughts about her arranged marriage to a man she had never met, and how goats from France would make their way to the northern territories of the Ottoman empire or wherever this husband lived, to win her freedom for a French marriage. It seemed complicated.

‘How many goats exactly?’ Athos asked, bewildered but deciding to focus on the practicalities. She rolled her head in his direction and shrugged vaguely. 

‘Maybe 25 – probably not more than 50. I am only a third wife.’ His mouth opened slightly in ever expanding disbelief at the clarifications of her marital status. He looked at the others, pursing his lips and widening his eyes in feigned relief. 

‘Well that’s probably feasible’ he said wryly. 

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said firmly. ‘I have no intention of getting married again’ and rolled away from them, pulling the blankets over her head to sleep. 

The four men stared at her still form and then at each other. They shook their heads in disbelief at this news. 

Porthos chuckled in amusement and said, ‘well she was hardly married the first time.’


	9. Winds blowing from the east....

He felt pressure on his chest and thought his mother’s big tabby cat had returned. The cat liked to sleep on his chest and he often awoke to yellow slitted eyes a few inches from his own, blinking in rhythm to a deep purring rumble. 

He didn’t open his eyes. He’d had more than enough thoughts about his family recently. No doubt due to the realization of the link to his past that ran through her. It had been a strange journey. He had considered his memories securely barricaded and yet those fortifications now seemed vulnerable. He had dreamed of his mother playing the piano, recollections of his father invading his thoughts, and he was dreaming about his mother’s cat. There was a slight shake to his shoulders. He frowned. He didn’t recall the cat ever shaking him awake. He opened his eyes.

The eyes that looked back were clear, very blue, their iridescence winking at him and fringed with long dark curling lashes. He studied them for a moment, trying to deduce the source of their strange glinting lights. His eyes shifted to the generous mouth so close to his own. He hummed deep in his throat and looked back at those blue eyes. She was lying almost on top of him. He raised his brow and widened his eyes – questioning.

‘Someone is coming,’ she whispered. He frowned at her, putting his hands on her shoulders and in one movement raised them both to a sitting position. He listened intently for a moment, not taking his eyes from hers. She leaned over and laid her head against the ground. She lifted her head and nodded at him.  
They both stood up, Athos striding to nudge Porthos and D’Artagnan awake. Aramis broke through the surrounding bushes to say, ‘Riders coming.’ Porthos and D’Artagnan were already standing, pulling on boots, buckling their weapons belts and picking up muskets. 

Athos turned to tell her to leave, but the swaying bushes told him she had already done so. She went toward the horses.

‘How many?’ asked Athos. 

‘From the sound, I’d say four or five,’ Aramis answered.

Six she thought to herself as she threaded her way through the low bushes to the horses. She moved among the restless animals and placed a calming hand against their twitching flanks and withers, speaking softly, trying to quiet them. 

Her suspicions had been right. Over the past few days, she was sure she had seen the same man on two separate occasions in taverns. Athos had noticed her distracted silence and asked if something was wrong. He had also seen her surreptitiously studying the man. She didn’t know if anything was wrong, only that the man was out of place. And, that despite his western dress, she was certain he was Persian.

Aramis and Porthos disappeared into the surrounding wood while Athos and D’Artagnan waited for the riders, weapons held at their sides. It didn’t take long.  
Five mounted men rode into the clearing reining their horses in sharply. Their muskets were in their belts, no swords drawn. Silently they dismounted and turned to face the two Musketeers. From where she was hidden, she could see the intruders clearly. She sucked in her breath sharply. Persians.

The five men stood silently. They made no move toward the Musketeers or for their weapons. They seemed to be waiting. Athos glanced at D’Artagnan. The Musketeers waited too.

A clattering of hooves was heard as a rider appeared at the edge of the wood and slowed to a walk to enter the clearing. A man dismounted, straightened his tunic and turned to the assembled group. He nodded to his men, who parted to let him walk to the Musketeers. He stopped in front of Athos, bowing slightly. He was unarmed. 

‘Greetings,’ he said, rather formally. Athos nodded in return but did not speak. He studied the man in front of him. Suddenly he realized that the man was looking past him. Athos turned to see her standing at the edge of the clearing. He narrowed his eyes angrily. What was she doing?

Sophia walked slowly across the open space, automatically raising the scarf around her neck to cover her hair and across her lower face. Her eyes were locked on the man standing in front of Athos. 

He was shorter than the men around him, and much older. He walked with a decided limp, favoring his right leg. His hair and beard were black and liberally laced with grey. His dark eyes were deep set, his face rounded, a thick mustache extending beyond the boundaries of his well-shaped mouth. His face was lined with the combined long-term destruction of sun, age, worry, travel and too little sleep. He was still, in his older years, a very handsome man. He had the bookish look of a scholar. He also had a decided air of authority, as though he was accustomed to commanding men. Commanding them to do what she wondered?

She came to a stop next to Athos and bowed slightly to the man. He was watching her cross the clearing, his face stern and with incongruent twinkle in his dark eyes. She waited for him to speak first. 

‘Wa assalamu alaikum’ he said to her softly. He smiled at her. He had noted that she had covered her hair. It was a sign of respect that pleased him. This might go better than he expected. 

So, he was not overly concerned with religious protocols she noted. He had used a form of greeting not customarily used for non-Muslims.

‘Wa-alaikum-salaam,’ she replied softly. She extended her hand and he nodded again, smiling and took a step towards her. Athos automatically started to move between them. She placed a hand on his arm, an imperceptible shake of her head. Whatever this man’s purpose, she did not want to get the Musketeers killed. This man was here for her. 

‘I am happy to see you my lady,’ he said in Farsi. She raised her eyebrows. Why would he be happy to see her? He spoke as though he knew her. She inclined her head to the Musketeers. 

‘Can we speak so our friends will understand?’ she asked. He nodded readily and turned to Athos. 

‘Shall we call in the others?’ he asked the Musketeer in fluent French. The spymaster was referring to Porthos and Aramis. Athos looked at him steadily and then towards the direction Aramis and Porthos were secreted out of view. The two men stepped into the clearing holding their weapons at their sides.

She laughed, ‘your French is much better than mine!’ she said to him in Farsi.

‘Then we must practice,’ he teased, still speaking French. She was delightful, he thought, just as she had been as a small child. Athos and D’Artagnan exchanged looks. Did she know this man? 

She studied him carefully and he stood quietly under her appraisal. Her next words were unexpected. 

‘Your men are soldiers,’ she remarked. He nodded in agreement. ‘But only three are Persian. The other two are westerners –from where?’ 

He nodded at her, replying, ‘Spain and England.’ She raised one eyebrow at the international assemblage. 

‘But you are not,’ she said firmly. Before he could speak, she interrupted. ‘Not a soldier,’ she clarified.

She was not asking him a question. She is astute, he thought. He was surprised, but privately commended Sukh. He had prepared her well.

‘You are a spy,’ she concluded. He waved his hand dismissively. 

‘Such a pejorative term,’ he replied easily. ‘It doesn’t due justice to our craft or intentions.’ He was careful not to be confrontational with her. She smiled.

He leaned forward, lowering his voice, and drawing her towards him in conspiracy, ‘you know we invented espionage.’

‘Egyptians,’ she corrected. ‘They think they invented it.’

He gave a short shout of laughter. ‘Yes, of course! Writing, paper, alphabets and espionage! Lucky for the world! How else could we make cyphers?’ 

He was amused and enjoying her quick mind. She was smiling, but her eyes were guarded and watching him closely. She was not fooled by their easy banter.

‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Why are you here for me?’ He nodded again, pleased at her directness. 

He didn’t answer her first question. She had already guessed his profession. ‘I have a story to tell you,’ he said. May we sit?’ he gestured toward the fire. She hesitated, looking at Athos. He had been silent, watching their exchange carefully. He nodded in acceptance and the group moved to sit around the fire. The Musketeers and three of the other men remained standing.

‘Are you warm enough my lady?’ the spymaster inquired solicitously. He spoke rapidly in his native tongue to one of the men who went to fetch a blanket from his horse. Once he had draped it around her shoulders, he turned to her.

‘My name is Abbas,’ he started. ‘I knew your father.’ Her eyes widened in curiosity. 

‘You and I met once as well,’ his eyes smiled at the memory. ‘You were garbed in trousers and a pirahan, and your father and I watched as you raced your pony with several other wild uncontrollable miscreant ruffian children. We probably did not actually meet – you may have just flown by me.’ 

She laughed at his description of her. ‘And from that brief non-encounter, you actually remember me?’ 

‘You were unforgettable on that pony,’ he smiled again. ‘You have grown into a beautiful young woman.’ She blushed slightly at his unexpected compliment and looked down. His smile widened. Her father would be pleased at her modesty.

Athos was listening to this exchange with growing irritation. The man was disarming and seemingly not a threat. But then why the approach in the dead of night and with five armed men? He cleared his throat. Sophia immediately raised her eyes to his. The old man smiled and continued.

‘Yes, to the point of why I am here,’ he turned to her. ‘How much do you know about your father’s work in Persia?’ 

‘In Persia?’ she was puzzled. ‘He was on a mission to the Ottoman court.’ 

‘Yes,’ the old man said, ‘but he had some interactions with Persian envoys as well.’ He was choosing his words carefully. ‘Your father was a great admirer of the Persian people. He was a friend too.’ 

‘To Persia?’ she asked, understanding growing in her eyes. He nodded. For a long moment, no one said anything.

‘Are you suggesting my father was disloyal to his French mission, in service of Persia?’ she asked incredulously. 

‘Your father was a man of vision. He was extraordinarily knowledgeable about the world, history, geography, world events and quite astute in politics. He loved the region, had great respect for the history of the people, their culture, art, science, literature and traveled extensively throughout the territories. He took copious notes and was writing a book. He understood both the east and the west. He wanted to bring the two closer to better understand their world views. He believed that without that understanding, the two would be separated for generations.’ 

‘Yes, of course, I have heard my father speak on his views. I traveled with him,’ she reminded him. She knew of his notes and the book he was writing. She helped him with his papers. It was troubling to think of her father. She didn’t know what had happened to him. Despite how well she thought she knew him, he was, as adults are to children, sometimes a mystery. 

‘But I don’t understand why you are here,’ she frowned, puzzled and hesitated. ‘Why you are here for me.’

He looked thoughtfully at the Musketeers – the sworn guards to the King of France. He spoke to her in their native language.

‘We are perpetually at war with the Ottomans. My country, the country your father loved, and that I believe you love, is at a disadvantage. We are not as rich, nor as well equipped as the Ottoman Empire. Your father tried to help balance the field of battle so that we might better be able to preserve our way of life.’

His words were smooth and seemingly innocuous. But she understood his true meaning and stood up her eyes fierce, ‘you accuse my father of being a traitor to the interests of France.’ 

Athos was alarmed but remained where he was standing. They had switched languages and he did not understand what they were saying, but he clearly saw her agitation. He was careful not to move his hands to his weapons and sent a warning glance to the others. Porthos was in a staring match with one of the spymaster’s soldiers. Aramis was holding his long gun deceptively loosely in his arms and D’Artagnan was subtly shifted his weight one foot to the other preparing for action. The mood had suddenly changed.

‘I do not suggest it and he did not do it,’ Abbas said firmly. ‘There are many back channels between France and Persia.’ He remained seated and held out his hand to her. 

‘Please Sophia, sit,’ he asked her, careful to not be issuing an order. She remained standing, trying to determine what this man was doing here, what he wanted from her. Her father would never have committed treason. 

‘Please,’ he repeated, still holding his hand to her. She ignored his hand but sat down. She kept her eyes on his face. She wanted explanations.

‘We are working to modernize our army and have arranged a purchase of weapons. Your father made an introduction to help us with the arrangements and the financing. He came here to finalize the deal. But, as you know, he disappeared and was never found.’

‘Are you saying my father returned to France? And left me?’ she looked at him, flushing deeply in shock and disbelief. ‘When my father left me, he came to France?’ she repeated her voice rising in incredulity. But he could see, behind the shock and disbelief, that the news hurt her. 

‘He had work to do and was here very briefly. He intended to return to bring you back home.’ She winced at the word home. ‘I thought I was already home.’ she retorted, feeling tears of confusion and pain burning behind her eyelids. 

‘He said, when he returned, we would discuss it,’ she was defensive. The old spymaster studied the rampaging emotions crossing her face. She was learning things about her father she never knew and revisiting her abrupt departure from a place and people she loved.

She looked at him, and asked irritably, ‘what do you want from me?’

He took a deep breath, ‘the gold to purchase the weapons is missing. Many people are looking for it and have not found it. I believe your father hid it,’ he paused.

‘And you think I know where it is?’ she asked, her voice rising in amazement. ‘How could I possibly know?’

‘We have reason to believe he hid it at your family home.’

Now she sat back and stared at him. ‘Do you know how old I was when we left France? How many years it has been since I have been in that home?’ The man was mad or senile or both.

‘Yes, I do know. But I need you to try.’ His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking his grim tone. She suddenly realized she may not have a choice.

He was speaking French again, leaning towards her, but looking at Athos. ‘There are others searching for this gold. They know you are here and are also looking for you.’ Athos frowned, his eyes darkening in anger.

‘Help me find it before they find you. Once we have purchased the weapons, we leave France. There would be no reason to harm you and I believe the French King is expecting you in Paris. He will protect you.’ 

The spymaster was still watching Athos. He wanted the Musketeer to understand the situation and the danger to her. Trying to intervene to stop him, would solve nothing. She was at risk from forces beyond them both. The Ottomans were bearing down on her. He was lucky he had found her first.

‘How do you know that?’ she was referring to the presumption that the French King would protect her. She had no idea why, after so many years, the French King had suddenly decided to find her and bring her back. 

‘There is a man in the King’s service, who has been searching for you for a long time.’ 

He swept his hand in the direction of the Musketeers. ‘He sent the priests and he has ordered these men to protect you and take you to Paris.’ 

He did not mention that the priests had found her and moved her before his own man had gotten to the village. There had been a different plan in place, but her successful departure from Constantinople had dictated that he create an alternative. 

He had decided to go himself, not trusting the operation or her safety entirely to the men under his command. They could often be more like blunt instruments than skilled tools. He was not a proponent of torture. People would say anything to make it stop or buy time. He needed her to not be afraid, but to focus, concentrate and solve a problem. Only then could she do what he needed from her. 

She sank down next to him, her mind blank but racing. ‘What do you want me to do?’ she whispered.

He glanced again at the Musketeers and continued again in Farsi. ‘Come with me to your home. Help me search for the gold he hid there.’

‘That you think he hid there,’ she corrected. She shook her head, ‘I don’t know where the estate is – I left there when I was a child.’ She gave a short laugh, ‘‘I don’t even know how to get there!’

‘I know how to get there,’ he said lightly and added, ‘For both our sakes, I hope he did hide it there and that we can find it.’ The unspoken words, - before the others find her - were chilling in their absence. 

Oh Father, she thought helplessly. What have you done? She had no doubt that the old spymaster had spoken truthfully about her father’s love of the eastern regions and his wish for better relations with western powers. But there were details of this story she did not know or understand. Where did the gold come from? Where did the weapons come from? Who was the man in Paris? Did any of that matter? 

If she didn’t help him, would he force her? Would he threaten to kill the Musketeers if she did not help him? Or kill one of them to make his point? The thought made her stomach churn with fear. She didn’t want to think of the methods he might use to force her. Sukh had trained her to use her intelligence, not how to survive torture. 

She had to use her brain to get the Musketeers out of this mess. It was unthinkable that any one of them would suffer because of her. 

She turned to him and said, in their native language, ‘I will help you on one condition. You let these men go and swear, in the name of Allah, you will not hurt or kill them.’

He stood up, nodding in agreement, ‘I agree and so swear, they will not be harmed. Although, we will need to delay them a little.’ He extended his hand to her and she took it. 

The spymaster gave orders to his men. One went to saddle her horse, and one removed shackles from a bag attached to his horse. Porthos growled as two men approached him. Another soldier cocked his musket and held it to Aramis’ head. 

‘Don’t worry about me,’ quipped Aramis, smiling broadly at the gun-wielding man. Porthos growled again but held out his hands. 

‘What did you agree to do?’ Athos called to her. She shook her head. She couldn't look at him.

‘Sophia!’ he shouted at her. ‘Tell me what you agreed to do! Where is he taking you?’ 

She looked at him helplessly and shook her head again. 

‘Dammit, tell me where he is taking you,’ he commanded. She looked down at the ground. She didn’t want him to see how scared she was.

She watched as the shackles were place on their wrists, looking at them apologetically and pacing in agitation. She started to walk across the clearing to her horse and then remembered her cloak. She was a little disoriented and turned suddenly to reach for it, stumbling into the soldier, tripping and starting to fall. He caught her before she fell all the way and set her upright on her feet. She smiled in embarrassment and thanked him. She retrieved her cloak. 

Leading her horse, she walked back across the clearing towards the spymaster and soldiers. They waited patiently for her. 

Suddenly she stopped and looked at Athos, standing slightly apart. They had not spoken a word to each other, but he was watching her intently. Her face reflected her regret and anxiety and tears filled her eyes. Impulsively, she dropped the reins, ran to him, threw her arms around his neck and leaned up to kiss him, pressing her lips firmly to his. He lowered his eyes and, with hands shackled together, gripped the front of her jacket and pulled her to him, holding her against him. She broke their kiss and leaned her head against him, his lips brushing her hair. She cried quietly, her tears wetting his shirt. 

‘Sophie,’ he breathed.

‘Don’t follow me,’ she whispered. ‘Go home.’ And then she was gone.

The Musketeers stood, shackled and alone in the clearing. The sound of the horses soon faded. Porthos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan turned as one and stared at Athos. 

‘Really?’ Aramis shook his shackled hands at Athos in a state of disbelief. ‘You choose this moment to start kissing women?’ 

He turned to the others, still shaking his head in amazement, ‘I suppose we should be relieved and celebrating that Athos has finally noticed the fairer sex. I just question his timing.’

Porthos did not smile or laugh – he was occupied with testing the strength of the shackles. He grunted in barely concealed anger at the futility of his efforts. ‘I can ride with these,’ he said. 'We should find a blacksmith.'

D’Artagnan was laughing with Aramis and turned to give Athos a congratulatory thump to the shoulder. ‘Didn’t see that coming,’ he grinned. ‘She is beautiful. And…special in so many ways!’ he joked. The men broke up in laughter.

Athos did not answer but looked back at them with bare tolerance. He shrugged helplessly and rolled his eyes at their teasing. 

‘Well,’ said Aramis, looking at the others, ‘now what? I know you must be proud of yourself, but are you just going to keep standing there with that silly smile?’

Athos still looking at them smiled broadly and bared his teeth. A small key peeked out at them. 

Porthos barked in laughter, ‘Well that explains everything!’ 

‘I cannot imagine any other reason she would kiss you,’ Aramis grinned.

D’Artagnan reached for the key and they were soon free of their bonds. They hurried to stow their gear and saddle their horses. 

‘It’s a miracle they didn’t scatter the horses,’ said D’Artagnan. 

‘It’s a miracle they didn’t kill us,’ said Aramis.

‘I’ll remember to say thank you before I kill them,’ exploded Porthos, still stinging from losing the staring contest and being shackled.

‘We need to move!’ said Athos. ‘Whatever they want from her, once they get it, they will kill her.’

‘She must have made a deal with them,’ D’Artagnan said, ‘Once they have what they want, they will set her free.’

‘She made a deal with them,’ Athos agreed, ‘but for our lives, not hers.’


	10. The Search

She was sitting in her father’s study, staring out the windows, tapping her chin with one of her father’s pens. The light was going from the day and soon it would be dark. She should light some candles and the fire in the drawing room. What about supper? She decided they could fend for themselves. She was tired of playing lady of the manor. Maybe she should not have sent the caretakers away. But she didn’t want William and Brigid to get hurt. She had no idea what was coming. 

Three days ago, they had crested the last hill before the long drive descended to the house. Tall waving pine trees lined the way. The driveway had been constructed so that there would be a view of the house from a distance. It was a magnificent building. Entirely constructed from white stone, the house was four stories, a long rectangle with mullioned windows along its front galleries, two wings extending forward and forming the borders of a courtyard with flower gardens surrounding a large fountain. She remembered sprays of water sparkling in the sunlight. 

A wide staircase led to the double front doors and a park extended from the back and right side of the house toward the woods. Visible from the front and behind the main structure were twin turrets, remnants of the old castle that had stood on this spot a century ago. The rounded structures were marked with arrow slits for defense and a moat below. The moat had been gone for a long time and was overgrown with brush. Their mother had forbidden her and her brother to play there. She feared the stairs unstable and that they might fall from the opening that led to the roof. They had played there anyway.

The men had not stopped, but Sophia had reined in her horse and looked towards the house, surrounding grounds and outbuildings. There was an air of stillness about the place, no servants or stable boys in the yard, or moving in the corrals or between any of the buildings. The grounds had an air of neglect, grasses uncut and overgrown, the park unmanicured , flowers dead and gone - attesting to the absence of the army of gardeners that had maintained the grounds. 

‘A beautiful house,’ remarked Abbas as he waited with her. Sophia looked at the house uneasily and with dismay. The house is huge, she thought to herself. She had been a child when she left this home. She could see the carriages in the driveway, her mother trailing after her father as he walked down the stairs and towards one of the carriages. She was pleading, crying, clutching at his sleeves. He ignored her, pushed her hands from him, and climbed into the carriage. 

For the past three days, she and the men had searched the house. It was no small task. She had no idea how many rooms were in the house. She had never known. She would only know the rooms she had occupied or used – bedroom, school room, dining room, drawing room, music room, mother’s room, father’s room and study, library, kitchen. But she knew now that the house had over 150 rooms. There were stables, outbuilding with rooms for stewards, grooms, guards, gardeners and other hired staff. There were other buildings that she didn’t know the specific use. 

She had set the men to start on the fourth floor, systematically working through cupboards, wardrobes, under mattresses, floorboards, walls, chimneys, checking furniture for hidden drawers or false bottoms. She had admonished them to not destroy, but search. Gold in the amount they were looking for would require a distinct shape, size and space. No need to slash every mattress, chair cushion or destroy furniture. So far, the men were following her instructions. But, if Ottomans arrived, that could change. If Ottomans arrived, everything would change.

She was in her father’s study, frustrated and tired. She had looked through every drawer, cabinet, desk, and trunk. She had moved paintings, lifted rugs, moved furniture, rifled books, and tapped floors, walls and ceiling looking for a secret place. 

She sat in her father’s chair, trying to think. She could dimly hear the men moving in other parts of the house. She stood and slowly circled the perimeter of the room, idly picking up a book or running her fingers over a globe, watching it spin slowly. She was looking at the walls, the floor, the ceiling. This was ridiculous she thought. They needed ten times the men to search the house, stables, and outbuildings, ride out through the estate to the hunting lodges, gazebos, pavilions, and summerhouses. 

She stopped at a table on the wall opposite her father’s desk and leaned against it, folding her arms over her chest. She studied her father’s desk intently, brows drawn together in concentration. 

Abbas also sat in the room. His hands were steepled and he was watching her. 

‘Did you and your father spend much time in this room together?’ he asked. She shrugged absently not looking at him. She was still frowning at the desk as though it was deliberately thwarting her efforts.

‘We spent most of our time in the school room,’ she replied. Together, she and Abbas had already searched the school room, and the nursery. He had watched her as she rummaged through the bedrooms for her mother, father and brother. He had been with her as she searched her own room, wandering through the large spacious room, picking up and reading titles of books on the shelves, noting a solitary doll on a low chair. He opened the window, leaning out to look at the grounds below and the large tree outside the window. She had been fearless in jumping from the window ledge to the branch and shimming down the tree’s height to the ground. It was a story he had heard from her father.

He stood up and stretched. ‘Let us go and see what is being prepared for supper.’ He didn’t like that she had sent the servants away. Servants would be helpful for meals, firewood and other tasks. But she had been insistent. She did not want to risk any servant getting in the way of whoever might be riding hard towards them. They walked together towards the kitchens.

Later, after supper, they sat together at the immense dining table. She was swirling wine in her glass, deep in thought. He sipped his tea.

‘Let us have a game of chess,’ he suggested to her. She looked up startled and stared at him as though surprised he was in the room with her. Or, she was surprised that he wanted to play a real game rather than the one they had been playing for the past days.

She shrugged, but smiled and stood up, leading the way into the drawing room. 

As they settled into opposite chairs across the chessboard, he asked her, ‘did you play chess with your father?’

‘On the ship,’ she replied. ‘He taught me on the voyage from France.’

They were quiet as they made opening moves and settled into the game. He took the first game easily, but the second was harder. As they started the third game, he could see that she was now fully engaged and more aggressive. She won it handily. 

‘You are focused when you choose to be,’ he remarked to her. ‘Did you defeat your father often?’

‘He never let me win,’ she said, ‘if that is what you are asking me.’

‘So, he expected you to rise to a challenge.’ He leaned forward. ‘Are these not the lessons that Sukh taught you?’ She frowned and lifted her eyes to his, not speaking. 

‘How can you use what you know about your father to solve our problem?’ Your problem she thought. But it was her problem too. 

She sat back in the chair, drawing a blanket around her shoulders and stared into the fire. She had been thinking about nothing but her father, trying to remember him in this house. He was a kind man, but preoccupied. He rarely rode out with her or her brother and never with her mother, preferring to spend most of his time in his study. He had occasional visitors. He spent time with her looking over her lessons, and studying maps. They walked together along the paths in the woods or over the parklands, his head bent, hands clasped behind him, engrossed in his own thoughts. She didn’t chatter away, but walked ahead or behind him exploring quietly. Often he looked up at her with surprise, as though he had forgotten she was there or wondered from where she had come. He was thoughtful and must have given her some thought as he brought her gifts from his travels. And then, he had taken her with him. 

None of these musings helped her figure out where he might have hidden a trunk full of gold. She excused herself for the evening, and walked slowly toward the stairs. She could hear the men moving around on the upper floors. She started up the stairs to go to her room. The stair case was lined with portraits of ancestors staring down at her. They seemed to reprove her inability to save her ancestral home from the pawing hands of foreigners. What shock might appear on their faces when Ottoman soldiers burst through the front doors?

She lay down on her bed, tired, but unable to sleep. Her thoughts drifted to the Musketeers. She hoped they had gone to Paris, but she knew they were riding after her. Athos would not give up easily. Her fingers brushed her lips and she remembered the kiss between them. She had done it to pass the key to the shackles to him, but it had seemed there had been more. He had gripped her jacket and dragged her close to him, pressing his mouth hard to hers. She remembered the swirling sensation of his heat as he bent his head to hers. She had never kissed a man before. Abruptly she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. 

She walked to the windows, leaning her heated forehead against the cool pane of glass, listening to the wind blowing through the tree outside. Too restless to stay in her room, she picked up the candle holder and left the room, walking swiftly down the stairs and through the galleries to her father’s study. She could still hear the men on the floors above. They worked in shifts throughout the day and night. 

Once again, she sat in his chair behind the desk. She was certain the key to unlock her puzzle was here. Absently she pulled out the drawers again, running her hands back to the depths, searching again for a spring or other contrivance that would lead to a hidden space. Nothing. 

She turned the chair around to look at the table placed against the wall behind the desk. It held a few reference books, small portraits of family, her mother, herself and her brother. They were remarkably free of dust. The housekeeper had kept the house as tidy as possible. 

There were two miniatures side by side. She knew these portraits well and she leaned forward, elbows on her knees to study them closer, her eyes wandering over the familiar features. Slowly, her eyes widened. She sat up, heart racing with anticipation. Good God she thought. Was it that simple? 

She ran up the stairs. She searched her father’s closet and found a warm jacket, and fur lined gloves in the back of a cupboard. It would be cold where she was going. It would also be dark. She padded through the house soundlessly to the kitchen and back workroom, searching quietly and finding what she needed. She shouldered a small bag and stepped into the night, closing the door quickly so no light would spill from the room into the darkness. She waited in the shadows listening intently for sounds of the guards. She mentally reviewed the route she would take that would keep her in the shadows of the buildings or shrubbery. The light from the moon was occasionally obscured by dark shadows drifting along on the winds. If she was careful, she would not be seen.

 

She crouched in the low bushes listening. The only sounds were the chirping of crickets and buzzing of insects, a gentle wind rustling the trees overhead. If she had been followed, it was by someone better than she was at being silent. She studied the door that opened into the mausoleum vestibule. It was a simple latch and although the door was heavy, she should be able to open it. Crouching low, she ran quickly across the open space, lifted the latch and pulled. The door was heavier than she had anticipated. She set her feet firmly, grasped the door handle with both hands and pulled as hard as she could. The door groaned in protest but moved enough for her to slip through its opening. She pushed against it as it started to close. If it slammed shut, it might not open easily. The door closed with a soft hiss and she was in total darkness. 

She steadied herself with a few deep breathes, breathing in the stale and musty air. If she was to go any further, she needed light. Tentatively, she felt the wall next to the door and not finding what she was seeking, she turned to the other side of the door. Her fingers touched a metal object – a sleeve to hold a torch. She continued her search below the sleeve, running her fingers down the wall to the floor. She touched dry stiff cloth, tightly bunched and attached to a wooden stake. Her fingers touched a bowl. She had found the torches. 

She pulled the fire striker and a large vial of oil from the bag. She knelt to the floor, pouring oil into the bowl and soaking the head of the torch. She picked up the fire striker. On the fifth try the oil soaked cloth ignited, flaring into a bright glow. She stood up and looked around. The mausoleum stretched before her beyond the light from the torch and disappearing into darkness. To the right was a set of steps leading down to the crypt that extended below ground. Generations of her ancestors were there their stone representations lying atop their individual sarcophagus; hands folded piously, stony eyes shut to the darkness that enfolded them. She was hopeful that she would not need to descend to that gallery and its silent community. She started forward.


	11. The Challenge

Athos signaled for them to stop. The four men dismounted and tethered their horses. Dropping to their stomachs, they crept to the top of the hill and looked down on the darkened house. They couldn’t see the guards, but they were there. The men they pursued were experienced soldiers and expecting Ottoman warriors. There would be few, if any, mistakes. 

The house was dark. Drapes were drawn across windows obscuring any lit candles. There was no way to tell if anyone inside the house was awake. 

‘We should find a better place to watch the house and buildings,’ Porthos spoke in a low voice. He swept his hands toward the stables and outbuildings. 

‘In that direction,’ he said. ‘The buildings provide us some cover.’ The stables would also have grain for their horses and the outlying pastures would have a water trough. They had been riding hard and needed to tend the horses. It was practical. They didn’t know how long they would be surveilling the place.

‘Someone will come to the stables,’ countered Aramis. 

‘I’ll watch for that,’ said D’Artagnan. 

‘Let’s go,’ ordered Athos. They crept down the hill, mounted and rode back to the woods, threading their way through the trees behind the stables. The moon was occasionally obscured by drifting darkened clouds. The thin moonlight filtering through provided little illumination to see their way. They reached the side of the park, behind the stables and dismounted. From where they stood they could see the side of one wing and turrets. The peaked roof of the family mausoleum was visible through the waving trees beyond the park at the back of the house.

D’Artagnan crept toward the stable, disappearing inside. The men waited. It wasn’t long before he reappeared carrying a grain sack across his shoulders. 

‘Their horses are here,’ he said, breathing hard from the run and weight of the sack. Porthos dumped grain on the ground for the horses while D’Artagnan continued, looking at Athos, ‘her horse is here,’ he confirmed.

‘Now what?’ inquired Aramis. 

‘Break down the front door, kill them all and ride off with Sophia,’ Porthos summed up the task easily. He had been riding hard for too many days, was tired, sore, hungry, and irritable. He wanted to punch someone. Soon.

‘Simple and expedient,’ declared Aramis in agreement. ‘I like it!’

Athos stared toward the house. He had been thinking about this problem and didn’t have a plan he liked. The spymaster had made it clear that others were looking for her. He wasn’t sure killing the men inside the house resolved the larger problem. He was pretty sure it didn’t. The only thing he was sure of is that he wanted to find Sophia. Find her first. Worry about killing everyone else later.

He studied the house again. From their vantage point they could only see the side of one wing. 

‘We’ll go around to the back and find a way in other than through the front door,’ he said to them. Porthos shrugged at what he considered an unnecessary overly cautious approach to the problem, but they moved out, staying within the shadows of the trees, and back to the edge of the parkland behind the house.

 

She proceeded carefully. The floor was slightly uneven and she didn’t want to risk tripping and falling, or dropping the torch. She couldn’t chance any kind of injury. No one knew where she was and if she couldn’t get herself out of the mausoleum she might be in trouble fairly quickly. Of course she hadn’t tested the door to see if she could open it. She stopped, closing her eyes and quieting her overactive imagination. Solve the first problem little star, whispered Sukh. Or, there will be no second problem to worry about. 

She moved cautiously, her hand sliding along the wall, the torch held high. Suddenly, her fingers touched cloth. She yanked her hand away, heart hammering rapidly in her chest. Had she touched someone? Dead or alive? She thrust the torch forward and realized that there were curtains, framing a doorway through which she could see a sarcophagus. She frowned, relieved but annoyed. Who put curtains in a mausoleum? They would only rot. She pushed the heavy curtains aside and entered the partitioned cubicle. She fanned the torch over the stone figure lying atop the tomb, standing on tiptoe to read the inscription and look at the stony face of the tomb’s inhabitant. She stared at her mother. 

She gasped and jumped back, banging into the stone wall, momentarily panicked. She stood, stiff legged, gaping at the stone tomb holding her mother’s body. Instinctively she sank down to the cold stone floor to collect herself. She was dizzy and fighting the urge to retch.

She waited for her breathing to steady, and hand to the wall behind her, she stood slowly. She took a tentative step towards the curtain opening, testing her wobbly legs. She was shaky, but in no danger of falling or fainting. She took a deep breath of the stale air, and continued down the passageway. 

She reached the second and third recessed cubicles where she found the tombs of her older brother and grandmother. Her grandmother had been a stern woman, who found many faults in her daughter and the way her granddaughter was being raised. She didn’t visit often. If her brother had lived, she would never have gone east with her father. And, she wouldn’t be here, standing next to his coffin. 

She moved deeper into the chamber. The front of the mausoleum disappeared into darkness as the torch she carried lighted new sections of its length. Occasionally she could hear tiny faint scratching scurrying sounds. Mice she thought. They always found a way.

Three more recessed cubicles– her grandfather, her mother’s sister and her young daughter. She wondered how they had died. She didn’t remember this aunt or young cousin. She reached the next sarcophagus. 

It was tiny as would befit a very small child or a baby. The carved stone figure was a small boy. Unlike the usual renditions of dead people, properly lying down, hands folded, silently guarding their human remains, this stone child refused to take his eternal nap. He was sitting up. The boy was looking expectantly toward the hallway, as though waiting for someone to show up and play, or read a book, or share an apple. It must have caused quite a stir, to have a lifelike child on the top of the stone coffin holding his dead body. 

She knew this child. And she knew what she was seeking was here. She walked around the sarcophagus. The floor was smooth and empty. There was a stone bench extending out from the back and side walls. It was the only cubicle that had a bench. Someone had thought they would come and visit this boy. Maybe, while here, the visitor read a book or ate apples.

She walked to the bench and ran her fingers gingerly over its surface. She soon found what she was looking for – a seam in the top of the bench in the shape of a rectangle. She pulled the metal pry bar from her bag and leveraged it into the seam. She pushed down and lifted the stone. She tipped it against the back wall and peered into the opening, holding the torch high. 

A small chest was tucked into the space below the seat. She lifted the lid. Yellow lights winked at her in the torchlight. She dipped her hand into the box of heavy coin, letting it run through her fingers. She had no idea the value of the amount in the chest. She had no idea how much muskets and cannon cost. She replaced the chest lid and the slid the stone cover back into place. She turned to the sitting stone boy and touched him gently. Thank you she said silently. 

She made her way slowly back to the front of the mausoleum. The torch was beginning to dim and the shadows did a jerking dance in its sputtering light. She set the torch in the metal sleeve in the wall and pushed against the door to open it. It didn’t move. She pushed against it again, with all the strength she could muster. The door was stuck. She stepped back again, taking big gulps of the stale air and once again pushed on the door. It was useless. The door would not open. She raked her hand though her hair, fighting down panic. She was missing. Abbas would start a search, soon if he hadn’t done so already. She stepped back again, stumbled and reached to steady herself, her fingers closing on the curtains. They were cold to her touch, and slightly damp. 

Frowning, she felt the curtains again – definitely – they were damp in spots. She looked up toward the ceiling and saw a pinpoint of light. It must be the place where the roof joined the peaked front of the mausoleum. A weak spot that had resulted in a tiny hole which had let in mice and a few drops of rain. And, this tiny spot would let out a thin wisp of smoke, signaling that she was in the mausoleum. It might be enough to be freed from this tomb. So, she would set the room on fire.


	12. How to end a rescue.....

The Musketeers were crouched at the edge of the wood at the back of the park. There was a light in the kitchen but no movement that they could see. Suddenly the back door opened, and men spilled out into the yard moving in separate directions, moving in a tight organized pattern through the park, They were searching the grounds. There was only one person they could be searching for – Sophia was not in the house. 

The Musketeers stepped back and knelt to the ground. 

‘She’s out here somewhere?’ asked Aramis startled at this possibility but looking around. Why would she be out here in the middle of the night? Was she trying to escape?

Athos watched the soldiers disappear around the corners of the house towards the front of the building. This was their chance to get into the house. But if Sophia was not in the house why should they go in? Could the men be responding to something else? Had the Ottomans arrived? He raked his hand through his hair.

D’Artagnan was staring at Porthos with a puzzled expression. He dropped his eyes to the ground on which the big man was kneeling, frowning in confusion. With a sudden wave of his hand at the big man, he stammered, ‘you seem to be on fire!’ 

The other two men turned immediately to Porthos. Black smoke was leaking from around him, thin tendrils drifting up into the air. The big man looked down at the ground discharging small puffs of black smoke between his knees and leapt sideways as though flames were upon his backside. Athos stared at the ground in confusion. There were no flames. He looked up. The mausoleum was directly in front of them. Why in heaven was there a fire in a mausoleum?

 

That same mausoleum was filling with smoke. The heavy damp curtains were not burning but smoldering. There was far more smoke than she had anticipated. She was pushing desperately against the door, coughing, eyes stinging and watering from the smoke. Someone had to come soon, or she wasn’t going to be able to breath. She pushed against the door, feeling weaker. She pushed again, sliding down to the floor. She was choking, her vision blurring. The stairs. She should crawl to the stairs and go into the crypt. She rolled to her knees, the opening to the stairs yawning in front of her. She pushed herself away from the door, falling to her stomach and reaching forward to drag herself….

Porthos grabbed the handle of mausoleum door, set his feet and yanked hard. The door flew open, smoke spilling out into the night air. Athos stepped into the doorway, waving his hands to clear the smoke. Aramis was on his heels. 

‘Sophia,’ Athos stepped cautiously forward. He couldn’t see. He reached for his scarf around his neck pulling it to cover his mouth and nose, coughing. There was too much smoke and no light. As Aramis stepped to the side he tripped over something on the floor. He reached down and touched flesh.

‘She’s here,’ he cried, bending down, grabbing her under her arms and dragging her back toward the door. 

 

Cold air hit her face and she gulped it greedily. Had she fallen into the crypt? Her head was pounding, she was dazed and light-headed. She struggled to sit upright and heard a voice very far away. She tried to focus on it, but she was coughing and fighting to take a deep breath, the dizziness intensifying. Who was talking to her? It was her last thought before she slipped into darkness.

‘She’s coming around,’ a deep male voice was too loud to her ears. She was swimming up through darkness where she was dreaming about swimming. In a lake she knew, but couldn’t remember where it was. The water was cool and felt so fresh and soothing on her skin. She didn’t want to leave it. 

‘Come on beautiful,’ the voice was insistent. ‘Open your eyes.’ She tried to open her eyes, but they felt dry and scratchy, her vision bleary. She blinked rapidly several times. She was looking at blurry deep brown eyes smiling at her. She tentatively smiled back.

‘There you are,’ Brown Eyes pronounced. A hand was holding a cup to her lips. 

‘Drink some water. It will help with the smoke.’ 

‘Smoke is in my lungs, not my stomach,’ she corrected hoarsely. She tasted grit in her mouth and drank the water.

‘Ha! Cranky and a know-it-all! It is her!’ Brown Eyes leaned toward her. ‘It was hard to tell under all that soot and dirt. We just got you cleaned up a few days ago, and here we are. Back where we all started.’ 

Her vision cleared. Aramis. 

She was lying on a sofa in the drawing room and Aramis was sitting next to her. She looked into his warm brown eyes and threw her arms around his neck tears rolling down her cheeks. He rocked back with the weight of her launched at him, but closed his arms around her, laughing, and hugged her, hard. 

‘Now that’s the way to end a rescue,’ he joked, smiling at her but eyes expertly traveling over her face, and checking her hands and arms, looking for bruises or other injuries that would require his attention. He had a cool wet cloth in his hands and was gently wiping her face of soot and dirt. 

There were others in the room. Abbas was standing behind Aramis. She couldn’t read the expression on his face. Without turning her head, which was throbbing, she found Porthos and D’Artagnan. She looked around again and then at Aramis. He smiled and patted her arm, standing up. Athos sat down in his place.

His face was stern, his eyes dark and unreadable. But she knew where to find his feelings of anxiety and relief. She smiled faintly at him and his eyes shifted. Her smile widened.

‘What happened?’ he asked her. 

‘I was trying to get out,’ she started to explain. A fit of coughing and eye watering interrupted her.

‘Get out?’ he said, his voice rising incredulously. He lifted one noble eyebrow. 

‘By setting the room on fire,’ he remarked and thereby clarifying the problem with her reasoning, in case she had missed it when she held the torch to the curtains.

She spread her hands helplessly, frowning slightly, ‘it seemed like a good idea at the time. Or maybe the only idea.’

Porthos barked a short laugh and grinned broadly at her attempts to explain. D’Artagnan grinned at him, ‘And here I thought it was your ass on fire!’ The big man growled at him.

Abbas interrupted them. ‘Why were you in the mausoleum Sophia,’ he leaned towards her attentively.

For the first time she noticed the soldiers standing at the edge of the room, guns in their hands and swords drawn. She looked back at Abbas.

‘Following a hunch, which I will tell you about when your men hand their weapons to these men,’ she lifted her chin to indicate the Musketeers.

Abbas started to object, but she interrupted him, saying firmly ‘I cannot think of any reason we would want to kill you, but I can think of several reasons why you would want to kill us.’ 

‘If you want to know what I was doing in the mausoleum, order them to hand over their weapons.’ She fixed her eyes to his. Her demand was not negotiable. 

‘We can search the mausoleum,’ he warned. She shrugged but did not answer him. She kept her eyes on his and waited.

Abbas gave a short order. His men hesitated and then stepped forward and placed their weapons within reach of Porthos and D’Artagnan. Porthos glared at them. He still hadn’t been able to punch anyone – yet.

The spymaster turned back to her. She spoke to him briefly in Farsi. He frowned but looked at one of the men who left the room. She eased herself to a sitting position, and took another drink of the water.

‘Please bring that table here,’ she asked Abbas softly, pointing to a small round side table at the end of the sofa. He did as she asked.

The man returned carrying a large family bible and two small portraits. He set the items on the table. Now all the men looked at the table and then at her curiously. She sat up and opened the family bible, thumbing through the pages of generations of recorded births and deaths. She finally came to the page she was looking for and turned the book so Abbas could read the names. He studied the page intently and then looked askance at her.

‘This is the recording of my birth,’ she said to him, ‘Do you notice anything?’

He studied the line of elegant flowing script documenting her name and date of birth. He suddenly chuckled and nodded. ‘I see it,’ he said smiling at her.

‘See what?’ Aramis was peering at the script and shook his head. 

‘The spelling of my name,’ she told him. He craned his head and studied it again. ‘What does that mean?’

‘My father recorded my name in the family bible and he spelled Sophia according to Arabic and Persian custom, not French.’ 

Abbas was nodding and continued looking at the page. Suddenly, he frowned, studying the page intently. He looked up in confusion to meet Sophia’s eyes. 

‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘That was my brother, my twin brother.’ 

The Musketeers exchanged surprised glances. All eyes turned to the two miniature portraits. One was a girl and the other a boy – both of the same age, with blue eyes and the blond curls of childhood. 

‘His name,’ Abbas voice was reverent and soft. He ran his finger over the script of the child’s name. 

‘Yes,’ she answered, looking at the portraits sadly. ‘Phillippe Claude Cyrus Samyar.’ Two names common for Persian boys. ‘Cyrus – meaning the light, and Samyar…’

‘Meaning gold or those with gold coin,’ finished the spymaster. He looked at her, and shook his head in admiration at the elegant simplicity of her father’s hiding place. 

Aramis asked, ‘what does Safiyya mean? 

The old spymaster spoke to his men, who left the room. He gestured to her shoulder, ‘may I?’ he asked. 

She nodded and pulled her right arm from her sleeve of her jacket. Her chemise was cut modestly with thin straps, exposing her shoulder and back. Holding the jacket to her she turned. The sepia tattoo was visible on her shoulder, its graceful symbols trailing down her back. Sukh had taken her to the artist, selected the symbols, their orientation and gentle color. 

Abbas pointed to the first set of symbols, ‘the spelling, Safiyya. And these,’ he indicated each symbol separately and saying its meaning, ‘pure, wisdom, warrior.’ He pulled her jacket up over her shoulder and smiled broadly at her. 

‘You are worthy of this name,’ he said to her, touching her cheek.


	13. Spymasters and other friends...

She walked down the wide front stairs with the old spymaster. 

‘My father called my twin brother his golden boy,’ she told him. ‘He had the most glorious blonde curls. His death was very difficult.’ 

‘He never spoke of him,’ Abbas said to her. ‘I didn’t know there was another child. It must have been too painful.’ She nodded and looked at the group at the bottom of the stairs.

'Tell me something,' she asked eyes twinkling at Abbas. 'Did the French King borrow the gold from the Ottoman's to buy their guns for a war with Spain?'

The spymaster smiled and made no comment.

'And the man in Paris stole the Ottoman guns, and the Ottoman gold borrowed by the French went missing,' Abbas still made no comment, but watched her tracking events with a smile. 

She continued, lifting a hand toward the gold secured on the horse, 'so that is the missing Ottoman gold and now Persia will use it to buy the stolen Ottoman guns for Persia to fight the Ottomans.' 

'The Sultan will expect to get repaid his gold. He will never believe that it just went missing - he will accuse the French of stealing it.'

'So,' she concluded, 'the man in Paris gets rich, Persia balances the battlefield, and the French owe the Sultan a great deal of gold.'

She burst out laughing, 'this is a scheme worthy of Persian espionage masters,' she exclaimed. The old spymaster joined her in laughing at the convolutions of the plot.

His men had saddled their horses and secured their treasure. They were bound for Paris and the arms dealer who would trade muskets and cannon for gold. Athos walked behind them as they descended the stairs.

The spymaster watched his men for a moment and then asked her, ‘do you feel you have betrayed your country?’

She looked at him, surprised at his question and wondered why he asked. She shook her head, ‘if you mean did I betray France, I would say, in forgetting me, France betrayed me over a decade ago. I have yet no feelings for this country as mine.’

She studied her hands for a moment and then, speaking in Farsi, asked Abbas quietly, ‘can you take me with you?’ her eyes sorrowful. 

He had been expecting her to ask him this question. He could not take her back. She would always be a potential pawn in the political gamesmanship between his country, the Ottomans and Europe. He didn’t want that for her and she would never fully comprehend or accept the risks until they were upon her. 

‘No, doxtar,’ he used the word for daughter. He continued in French. ‘This is your country and your home.’ He swept his hand to indicate the house and surrounding land. His eyes flickered to Athos, standing several steps back and watching them. 

‘There are those here who love you and those you will soon meet who will also love you. You must look forward.’

She nodded. She didn’t really expect that he would take her with him. She felt forlorn, watching the men make ready to ride. She felt a pang of loneliness and longing for the home and the people she had left. She looked down and bit her lip to stop the tears forming in her eyes. 

The old spymaster lifted her chin to look into her eyes, ‘I cannot bear to see tears in these beautiful eyes.’ He smiled at her. ‘I think we shall meet again.’ 

She watched him mount his horse. He lifted his hand to her. Then, they were gone, riding up the long drive and disappearing over the crest of the hill. For a moment she stood and watched the drive, the only sounds of birds and the rustle of breezes through the trees. She sat down on the step, suddenly exhausted.

Athos stood second watching her and then walked down the stairs and sat next to her. They were both silent. 

‘Are you all right?’ he asked quietly. She nodded, not trusting her voice. 

He didn’t speak for a few minutes and then he made his decision. ‘I came to this house many years ago, with my father.’

She glanced at him curiously. ‘Did our fathers have business together?’

He nodded, smiling ruefully, ‘In a manner of speaking.’ She looked at him questioningly. He took a deep breath, and turned to her.

When he was finished, she was staring at him in complete shock.

‘You and I were betrothed?’ she asked incredulously. ‘There is a contract?’

He nodded, ‘Yes, - or there was. There was a fire at my father’s house and it was destroyed.’ He looked towards the big house, ‘There may be a copy here – somewhere.’ 

‘I’m not going on any more searches in this house,’ she declared firmly. ‘Even to marry you,’ she added for emphasis.

He ducked his head, ‘I didn’t know how to tell you. Or even if I should tell you

She stared out at the empty fountain, ‘I guess you figured out that much.’ He didn’t reply. He still wasn’t sure he should have told her

‘I must have been a baby!’ she exclaimed suddenly, looking at him with dismay. Or maybe it was revulsion.

‘Not exactly,’ he protested. ‘We wouldn’t have been wed until you were of age.’ He didn’t want to seem depraved – debauching a young girl before it would be appropriate. Then he frowned.

‘I’m not older by that degree,’ he was slightly insulted at her insinuation that he was too old for her.

She laughed, amused at his wounded pride, teasing him, ‘I could be pushing you about in your wheeled chair.’ He rolled his eyes at her.

‘Did you marry?’ she asked him curiously. He nodded. 

‘Where do you live? Do you have children?’ He held up his hand to forestall a flood of questions from her.

‘The marriage did not work out,’ he said in a tone that did not invite further questions. ‘No children.’ 

She dropped her eyes and said, ‘I’m sorry.’ She said nothing more.

After a few minutes she looked at him in alarm, ‘the King will not try to make us marry, will he?’ 

He wasn’t sure what took him aback more – her thought that the King would order them to marry or her distress if that should happen. 

‘No, I don’t think so,’ he was reassuring. ‘Anyway, I am still married, and you are married to a goat herder in the northern territories. Remember?’ he teased her lightly. 

She smiled broadly, ‘that is right. You would have to send goats to pay for me.’ 

‘Only a few, if I recall. You are but a third wife. I could probably afford you.’ Now they were both smiling easily at each other.

They were silent, each turning over their thoughts. She turned to him. He slid his eyes to her raising his brow in askance.

‘God has a terrible sense of humor,’ she said. He chuckled ruefully. 

She has a wonderful sense of humor he thought, running his eyes over her profile. She was sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest. She bent one elbow to rest on her knees, balancing her chin in her hand. She turned her head to face him, blue eyes winking at him. She was beautiful he thought and remembered her lips pressed to his only a few days ago. He felt a stirring. 

‘You are my almost-husband,’ she was trying not to laugh, ‘I will do my almost-best to almost-obey, and almost-honor – my almost-lord,’ she was shaking with laughter. It seemed unbelievable - the remarkable events that led to the divergence of their young lives, and ruin of their fathers’ wishes for their futures. And now their extraordinary journey of the last two weeks and the convergence of their lives so many years later. 

‘Will that do?’ she teased him, her blue iridescent eyes sparkling at him. He looked down at her, taking her determined chin between thumb and forefinger, eyes roaming over the sun blush in her cheeks, rich mahogany hair shining with golden streaks, full lips so close to his. 

‘Almost.’


	14. Journeys End

Athos handed her into the carriage and rode with her to the palace. She nervously fingered her skirt and stared out the window, turning her head to watch the activity in the street. As the carriage drew to a stop in the palace yard, Athos opened the door and jumped down turning to help her. She sat unmoving for a few moments looking at him, blue eyes apprehensive. He nodded reassuringly and waited patiently. She extended her hand to him and stepped down into the yard. She pulled the blue scarf over her head and covered her face, only her eyes showing. 

In the palace, the hallways and stairs were thronged with people who nodded at the Musketeers and stared curiously at the veiled figure. D’Artangan and Aramis went in front of her, with Porthos following behind. Several times she turned to look at Porthos. He smiled at her encouragingly. Athos took her arm and steered her through the hallways and up the stairways. At the doorway to Treville’s office he stopped and turned to her. She was looking beyond him into the room, blue eyes wide over the veil. Athos entered Treville’s office.

Treville was sitting at his desk reading papers, listening to the men assembled around his desk, and tapping his fingers against his chin, when he noticed Athos. He stood up quickly staring from one Musketeer to another and then scanning the room. He found her - standing in the back, just inside the door, looking at him. She dipped her head slightly, slowly unwinding the scarf from her face and hair. She looked up at him, standing quietly, hands folded, blue eyes regarding him steadily. 

Louisa, Treville breathed softly. Athos looked quickly at Treville and frowned in uncertainty at her mother’s name. He turned to her, his eyes drifting up to the portrait hanging on the wall above where she was standing. He had seen it many times. He hadn't realized it was a portrait of a person known to Treville. It was a painting of a young woman, standing in a garden surrounded by wild roses. Her hands were folded together in front of her, chestnut hair blowing gently back from her face as though from a breeze, blue eyes gazing out at the world confident, challenging, and alluring. He looked back to Sophia. She could have been the same woman.

Treville ordered the room cleared and the crowd slowly left, lingering as they passed where she stood to stare at her. She took no notice, keeping her eyes on Treville. He walked toward her slowly and held his hands out to her. She hesitated, glancing at Athos and then back to Treville, and placed her hands in his.

‘Sophia.’ He whispered her name to himself. 

‘Sophia’ he said, this time addressing her. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for a very long time.’ He drew her to a chair and pulled another close. His hands trembling slightly. 

‘I know the trip was hard,’ he said, his voice gentle. ‘Aramis has filled me in on some details. You must be very tired. I have apartments for you in the palace. If you like you can go now and rest. A maid will help you. We have a lot to talk about, and I know you have many questions, but all can wait until you are ready. You are safe here.’

Her eyes had never left him. She had not responded to anything he had said to her up to this moment. He waited. She asked him one question - ‘who are you?’


End file.
